Project: Terminated
by Lei-lassassin
Summary: When the Freelancers escaped Command, they all had their own ideas of freedom. Yet when their A.I. whisper of the dark secret stored deep within the enemy, they find they can't ignore the plans the A.I. have set out for them. Prequel to A.I. Red vs. Blue.
1. Keep What You Steal

**Keep What You Steal**

The Spartan officer stood still, his orange visor disguising any expression he may have had on his face, his head turned in the direction of the soldiers lined up in front of him, their guns pointed directly at him. He sighed heavily, and then folded his arms, an air of irritation all around him. The commander of the opposing soldiers shifted uncomfortably on his feet, trying not to make visual contact with the Freelancer in front of him. His team sensed his discomfort, and glanced at the floor, mimicking his actions.

"So," the Spartan said, making the lead soldier jump in surprise at his sharp voice. "Tell me, what _is _this all about? I come back from one hell of a dangerous mission, and I find my quarters filled with armed guards, telling me I have to stay where I am. I don't like bullshit, boys. Please, don't make me contact one of Command's superiors to get this sorted out."

"I'm...I'm sorry, Sir," the leading soldier said, finally glancing up at the Spartan looming over him. The cold appearance that the armour gave the Freelancers made him feel...weak.

Powerless.

He gulped. "I, along with the majority of our soldiers, was given orders from the Director to detain all Freelancers until further notice. Once I receive the signal, my men and I are to escort you to the A.I. implantation facility."

"Any reason as to _why_?"

"Yes, Sir, but I was told it was classified."

"I outrank you, son. Now, I order you to tell me what the hell this is about."

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I can't-"

"Sergeant!" the Spartan barked, banging his red, metal fist down on the table, leaving a huge dent in it where contact had been made. "I _order_ you to tell me what is going on, and as your _superior_ officer, I can and _will_ have you put forward into disciplinary if you refuse to follow a direct command from me again!"

All around the complex, similar scenes were unfolding.

The female Spartan with silver armour stared at the men pointing guns at her face, extremely unhappy with the current situation.

They had the _nerve_ to shove a weapon in her face?

Clearly, Command had not briefed the assholes as to whom they were dealing with. She strode forward, watching with sadistic delight as the soldiers backed away, trembling slightly. Perhaps they _did_ know a bit about her after all.

"Listen, you little fucker," she snarled, giving him her best intimidating look. "Either you tell me right now why I'm locked down in my own room, or else I'll-"

* * *

"-kick your ass right back to where you came from," growled a green clad Spartan, pacing about the room like a caged tiger. "What could Command possibly want that they're keeping me holed up like this? I did exactly as they asked; I went after him, kept him contained, and after a brief struggle, we managed to get it from him. Sure, the building came down, but that was the bomb squad's fault, not ours!"

The soldiers that were detaining him said nothing, merely keeping their faces blank and emotionless as they held a ready finger on their triggers. The Spartan sighed.

"Please, will you just-"

* * *

"-say something?" the soldiers begged. The grey Spartan kept his silence, sat on his chair, legs crossed, arms folded, staring at the guards and doing nothing else, despite their attempts to raise a conversation out of him. They scratched their heads uncertainly, wondering how long it would be until he got bored of creeping them out.

"Look," one of the soldiers said finally, "if we tell you what we're here for, will you stop staring at us. For five minutes. Please?"

* * *

"Alright, alright!" the guard cried out, the red Freelancer's violent actions making him realise he might get through this alive if he did as he was asked. "Look, I don't really know that much...only what I was told."

"I don't care," the Spartan said. "Just tell me what information you have. Otherwise, we will have a problem. A problem that may involve-"

* * *

"-a round of bullets ending up in your _skull_," the silver Spartan hissed, putting her face right up to the soldier's. He shivered with fear, and she laughed maliciously. "Now, spill the beans, bitch."

"W-well, you s-see...um...Command told us to take you over to the A.I. implantation facility, a-and th-th-that when we got you there...when we got you there..."

"God damn it, hurry up! I'm not getting any younger, you know!"

The soldier quickly blurted out what he had to say, before shying away from her. There was a long and dangerous silence, and he realised he probably wasn't going to get out of the room alive.

"Well," she said. "Fuck me. You really _are_ a bunch of-"

* * *

"-cockbites, you know that?" the green Spartan said irritably. "Even after I insulted your mother _and _threatened your life, you _still_ won't talk! Is it so difficult to open your mouth and say a few words? Really? Or are you all mutes or something and can't say fuck all?"

The guards looked wounded by the Spartan's harsh words, and then rooted around in their trouser pockets, before pulling out their security I.D. cards, holding them up so that they could be seen clearly. The green Freelancer groaned, putting a hand to his head.

Every single one had the word MUTE stamped across it in large, red letters.

"I don't fucking-"

* * *

"-believe this," the soldier cried out, stamping his foot. "We've told you everything! Why can't you stop staring at us? Why?"

The grey Spartan shrugged his shoulders, tapping his armour plating on his arm with his fingers.

"Oh, God!" one of the other soldiers shrieked suddenly. "I can't take this anymore! I'm going insane!"

He began to run for the door, ignoring the shouts of his commanding officer, before being shot down.

"That's what I do to traitors!" the lead soldier cried, waving his gun about wildly. His men turned to him.

"But you just killed one of us without the proper authority. That makes _you_ the traitor!"

"Get him!" another yelled, and instantly the squad turned on itself, firing at each other. The grey Spartan watched with amusement as the situation became a blood bath, without him even having to lift a finger.

Silence.

Worked every time.

* * *

"I think I've made myself perfectly clear," the red Freelancer finished calmly. The Sergeant sighed.

"_Fine_, but as long as you keep this to yourself."

The Freelancer nodded slowly, and the Sergeant continued.

"Basically, the incident with Agent Washington was the last straw. As you know, he was detained by Command...by you. At the same time as that, however, Agent Nevada, also known as 'Tex', escaped the base. They were going to take away her A.I., only she resisted in the most violent manner, and then fled, killing many guards in the process. The Director has decided that the project is too dangerous to continue, and so all Freelancers are being rounded up and then escorted to the A.I. facility to have their A.I. removed...and then deleted."

The red Spartan stared at the Sergeant for a while, and then reached for something off his belt.

"Now, see here, son," the Freelancer said, almost cheerfully. "I'm not prepared to lose my A.I. and let it be deleted. Give Command my regards."

He tossed a small, khaki green ball onto the floor, watching as it released dark, green gas into the air. The soldiers choked on it, before slipping unconscious, and the Freelancer stepped over them, the sleeping gas unable to get through his suit's filter system. He stooped down and picked up one of the guard's guns, before standing up and quickly accessing his door panel, watching as it opened up so he could put in the password. He typed out the code, his blue A.I. hovering over his shoulder and watching with interest.

"_Have a nice day, Agent Arkansas!"_ the computer chimed merrily. Arkansas snorted, checked the guns were reloaded, and then left the room.

* * *

The silver Spartan emptied the last of her shotgun ammunition into the stomach of the remaining soldier, and then swapped guns with him. She didn't know who would be waiting out on the corridor for her, so she had to be prepared. She turned and opened a case she had securely locked, and carefully took out all the explosives that were hidden in it. The Freelancer wired them up to the door, stood back as far as she could, and then detonated them. The door, as well as a majority of the wall, exploded outwards, filling the narrow corridor with dust and rubble. As the Freelancer crept out into the open, her purple A.I. appeared at her shoulder.

"You know, Agent Massachusetts, I really do not see how blasting away the door was a sound option of leaving this base without our progress being hindered. There was a perfectly good password operated control panel within your reach."

"Hey, Sigma, or whatever your codename is," Massachusetts said, rolling her eyes at the program's formality. "Just because we're both new to each other, doesn't mean you need to call me 'Agent Massachusetts'. Call me Emma or Massachusetts or Massa. Or whatever. And secondly, you have to admit, that explosion was fucking sweet."

There was a slight pause as the A.I. considered it. Then she smiled slightly.

"Yes, it was quite a...unique method, shall we say?"

"Unique? I bet you couldn't have thought of anything more awesome in a million years! Computers just don't have the creativity that we humans do."

"I beg to differ...and why are you creeping about? You blew up your bedroom wall. I would think that Command is very much aware that you are on the run by now."

"Good point," Massachusetts said, setting off into a quick jog down the corridor.

* * *

The green Spartan sighed, watching as the soldiers beckoned him to follow. He still didn't know what was going on, and he could have easily busted out of here by now...it was just...

Well, they were mutes, for Christ's sake. Attacking them would be like pushing a disabled person off their wheelchair.

Or something like that, anyway.

Shaking his head, he moved out onto the corridor, hoping whatever he was going to was a good thing. As he passed through the door, the computer chirped a preppy message to him.

"_Have a nice day, Agent Alabama!"_

"Shut the fuck up," he muttered to himself, irritated that a preset greeting was practically mocking him.

* * *

The grey Spartan stretched his legs, yawning as he stood up, checking the ammo capacity of his sniper rifle. So, Command were going to take his A.I. from him, were they?

"Let them try," the red A.I. laughed, hovering over his shoulder. The Freelancer grinned.

"I can always trust you for a morale boost, Tau," he said, typing his password into the computer.

"_Have a nice day, Agent Iowa!"_

As Iowa strode through the complex, the ground suddenly shook, a loud explosion in the distance making him jump.

"What the hell?" he said, stopping in his tracks and looking around. A patrol guarding a green Freelancer rounded the corner, and Iowa raised his gun immediately. They backed off, eyeing him warily.

"You realise where they are taking you, right?" Iowa asked the Spartan, who he recognised as Agent Alabama. Alabama shook his head.

"My guards are mutes. They couldn't tell me anything."

Iowa sighed and pointed his gun at the guards.

"You have three seconds to run," he said. "One...two..."

The soldiers quickly scarpered, deciding the task was not worth the risk.

"What would have happened to me?" Alabama asked, nodding in appreciation.

"They would have removed your A.I. and deleted it."

A hologram appeared above Alabama's shoulder, looking stunned. Iowa stared at it.

"...You have...a...lightish-red A.I.?" Iowa said finally. The A.I. glared at him.

"Just say 'pink'; it's a whole lot faster," Eta sighed. "And my name is A.I. Eta."

"Aytah?" Iowa asked. "How do you spell that?"

"...E-T-A," Eta replied, staring at him.

"Oh. Sorry, just the pronunciation was a lot different than what I thought it would be."

"Everyone says that..." Alabama mumbled. "By the way, do you have a spare gun?"

"Don't you have any in your room?"

"Hmm...Never thought of that. Be right back."

* * *

Arkansas stalked the corridors, his gun raised cautiously, several Freelancers following him as he went. It turned out a lot of the Agents felt the same way as him; they wanted to keep their A.I. at all costs. He glanced over at a fellow Freelancer, who seemed as if he was walking in a trance, his legs jerking awkwardly, his arms practically pinned by his sides.

"Maine?" he called out, concerned. "Are you OK?"

"...Yes. I am fine," Maine replied, his voice strained. It sounded almost like there were two people speaking, not one, a husky, feminine tone overlapping his deep voice. Arkansas shook his head. Now was not the time to hearing things. They had to get out of this alive.

Suddenly, Arkansas, who hadn't been concentrating on where he was going, ran straight into another Freelancer. They both fell to the ground, winded, and the group waited patiently while they stood up. The Freelancers had a better chance if there were more in their number, and whilst it would be easier to leave the slower ones behind, it was not logical. Also, Arkansas was the most battle hardened out of them all. It was obvious he would be taking command in the fight to escape, whether the others liked it or not. He glanced up at the green Spartan.

"Sorry about that...?" he said, waiting for the Freelancer to give his name.

"Alabama," he replied. "And I wouldn't advise going that way, there's a squadron of guards heading over as we speak."

Iowa sprinted around the corner, a wave of bullets hitting the wall opposite him. Footsteps could be heard approaching.

"You might want to get ready," he said, holding up the assault rifle and pointing it to the corner. Then a gold-yellow Freelancer stepped forward.

"I have an idea." She pulled out a large, khaki green gun, holding down the trigger so a red light began to glow at one end. Then she looked through the scope, before jumping into the corridor and releasing the weapon's firepower. A huge, red laser erupted from it, blasting the length of the corridor, incinerating all who stood in the way, all the while blasting a huge hole in the wall. Everyone stared at her for a moment, silent, and then shrugged, setting off to their new exit.

* * *

Arkansas sprinted across the open grounds, a hail of bullets following him, spraying up clouds of dust along the ground, gaining on him with every step he took. Then a red blast from Illinois' Spartan laser hit the enemy hornet, sending it crashing down onto a group of soldiers. The whole scene was utter chaos, with bodies scattered everywhere. Some of them were his friends, Freelancers he had often teamed up with during training, and he felt bitter about the other Agents still sat placidly in the complex, willing to have their A.I. removed. Sure, it was their choice, but to not even lend a hand in the firefight?

Arkansas sighed; he shouldn't expect such things from other people. Why should they take part in a battle that wasn't theirs?

Massachusetts, who had made it quite happily outside on her own, watched the bullets fly below with amusement. She had a rocket launcher in her hand, and was currently debating as to whether or not she should waste its ammo to help the other Freelancers.

_Nah._

Laughing to herself, she moved silently away into the night, everyone too preoccupied to notice her presence.

Iowa skulked on the cliff tops, sniper in hand, peering through the scope to find the leaders of the enemy. He spotted one, and lowered the target on his gun until it hovered on the victim's head. His finger pressed against the trigger, and a loud crack sounded across the complex, the back of the officer's head erupting with blood and brain as the bullet passed through, before collapsing to the floor. Iowa grinned to himself, pleased with his headshot. He loaded up the rifle, aiming for the next target, wondering if he could beat his record of fifteen in minute, giving time to reload as well.

Massachusetts strolled down the cliff, listening to the fighting behind her. Something felt wrong. She looked down at her rocket launcher and sighed. She knew she couldn't pass up the chance to be awesome. Turning and running back up to her previous spot, she placed the launcher on her shoulder, aiming for the masses of soldiers swarming out from the main door. The rocket shot out from the weapon, hitting the centre of the enemies and exploding violently. Massachusetts watched with a warm, fuzzy feeling as countless limbs flew up into the air, before raining down on the Command soldiers, making them panic.

Arkansas glanced up on the figure on the cliffs, the one with the rocket launcher.

_Good move_, he thought to himself. Iota appeared beside him.

"They are beginning to become demoralised, Agent Arkansas. I suggest you rally the rest of the Freelancers through the radio, and then attack head on. Perhaps you should contact the rocket holder. They may be able to blast certain areas to stop more troops arriv-"

Iota was cut off as another rocket flew overhead, smashing into the main entrance and bringing it down. Several more followed, obliterating all the entrances and exits into piles of rubble, crushing hordes of soldiers in the process.

"Well," Arkansas said, shrugging, "looks we just have to patch into the radio, now."

Arkansas sent out the message, and all the Freelancers reloaded their weapons, before charging at the remainder of the enemy.

* * *

"Now that we're out, where are we going to go?" Iowa asked Arkansas, glancing behind at the ruined base as the Warthog sped away, many more vehicles containing Freelancers following him. Arkansas sighed.

"I don't know, if I'm honest. We need some kind of fortified base – at least until we get back on our feet, anyway. Any ideas?"

Iowa thought for a moment. Then he looked up.

"How about that old training ground? The one with the fan?"


	2. Trouble In The 'Hood

**Trouble In The 'Hood**

Arkansas ducked as a sniper shot flew over his head, the soldier who had fired it out of sight in the dark. It had been stupid of him to stick his neck out at such a time, but he needed to view the situation himself since the bombs had started dropping. He loaded his pistol, crouched low by the old wall, his ears still ringing from the shot, and then tapped into his radio to call a friend.

"Iowa?" he whispered, trying to stay as quiet as possible so the enemy would not be alerted to his presence. Then he remembered that a sniper had just taken a shot at his head. They knew he was there.

"Hey, Ark." Iowa's voice crackled faintly down his headset, and Arkansas struggled to make out the words, the poor reception of Last Resort being a problem they had never fixed. "What's the problem?"

"There's a sniper on the south wall. Nearly took my damn head off," Arkansas muttered lowly. "Use your night scope and pick him out."

"On it."

The radio cut off, and Arkansas blinked. Why was it his radio was always faulty, yet everyone else's worked absolutely fine? Grumbling at the injustice, he sat and waited for Iowa to make his escape clean. He couldn't move until the sniper was taken care of.

A loud crack sounded, overlapped instantly by another. Arkansas heard loud cursing over at the enemy's side, and decided to make a break for it. Command spotted him instantly, running along the crumbled, open corridor, and a wave of bullets tore into the stone, sending up violent blooms of dust. Arkansas dove along the floor, automatically falling into a roll, evading the line of fire, and then sprinted as fast as he could along the desolate stretch. He reached the inner staircase, practically jumping down it, and then raced across the open area, trying to reach for cover at the giant fan. Command stopped short at the old wall, not daring to enter Freelancer territory whilst they were on alert. The Spartans had barricaded the main entrance, meaning that Command's heavy equipment, such as tanks and jeeps, couldn't come through. The only way to reach them was to approach them on foot, and even Command weren't that stupid.

Yet.

"Good job, Iowa. Head back to base," Arkansas said through the radio to his teammate.

"On my way…" Iowa replied, his voice laced with pain. Arkansas paused, concerned.

"Iowa, are you hit?"

"What? Oh, yeah. I am. Damn sniper had me in his sights, only I was quicker. I shot him just before he did, and he misfired…into my side."

"I'm going to get another Freelancer, and then we're going to help you-"

"Nah, I'm fine. I'll just-_shit._"

Arkansas heard shouts down the radio, and then loud gunfire. He glanced up at Iowa's usual sniping spot, to see it lit up with the firefight. Quickly he radioed one of his friends.

"Alabama?"

"Hey, Ark. What's up?"

"Get your ass down to the fan. We've got a situation."

"On it."

Arkansas smiled. That's what he liked about Alabama. He always knew when something was serious. No questions, no complaints; he just tried to solve the problem as best as he could. He heard the thumping of footsteps and looked up. Alabama was running across to Arkansas, gun in hand, his whole posture looking ready for a fight. Arkansas pointed up to where Iowa was, and Alabama nodded. They silently set off.

The fight at the base they now called 'Last Resort' had been raging for two months. Command had eventually forced them into a siege, blocking off all their food, ammunition, and water supplies. Now they were simply waiting for the Freelancers to die of starvation or dehydration, picking off any that tried to leave the base. Arkansas had given strict orders for no one to break, however. Freelancers had to have pride, and so far, everyone was coping well. The supplies were starting to get low, but they had plenty of time left to formulate a plan.

* * *

Massachusetts skulked about the fan, waiting patiently for the signal her A.I. was going to give her. She hadn't told anyone about the idea Sigma had come up with, as she didn't want anyone taking the glory. Plus, it looked like fun, and anyone that came with her would only get in the way.

Perhaps even hog it for themselves.

She crouched down as gunfire started, watching as the wounded Freelancer made pot shots with his pistol, barely keeping back the group of soldiers that were quickly advancing on him. It would the right thing to help him, but if she missed this, then the whole Freelancer resistance would be doomed. The unlucky bastard would just have to become one of the many sacrifices the siege had claimed. Sigma appeared beside her shoulder, her strange form comforting Massachusetts for reasons unknown. She was beginning to warm up to the program. Sigma had been extremely formal and boring at first, and Massachusetts had hated her, even if she did enhance her abilities. However, after a few weeks, she noticed a change slowly coming over the little hologram. For starters, her plans were always highly creative and amusing, and Massachusetts had earned much respect from the other Freelancers for her battlefield tactics. The older, more experienced Spartans sometimes scorned her for being reckless, but she didn't care.

She was having _fun_.

Then she realised that Sigma had an actual personality, and the formality was merely for 'impressive' show. The A.I. was quirky, sarcastic, and odd. She had a dry sense of humour, and often shared Massachusetts' appreciation for a bloody, destructive explosion, or perfect headshot with a pistol at long range. Against all logical thoughts, she did something she thought she never would.

She became friends with a computer program.

* * *

Arkansas scrabbled up the rough stone, some of the footholds crumbling beneath his heavy weight. Several times, he nearly slipped and fell, but always managed to cling onto something to keep him where he was. Alabama scurried up the impossible path as if it was nothing, and the crouched in a patch of sparse vegetation waiting for Arkansas.

"You should have run ahead and helped Iowa," Arkansas said quietly, but Alabama shook his head.

"I can't take them all on my own. If I just ran in, you'd have two soldiers in need of help instead of one."

Arkansas nodded apologetically, and then crept forward carefully. Iowa was not far from them, his back against a stone pillar, breathing and bleeding heavily. His gun was on the floor, and Arkansas knew it was empty. The enemy was slowly climbing up towards him. Had they not been there, Iowa would've ended up a dead man. Arkansas jumped out, looking through the scope of his battle rifle and pulling the trigger, the spray of bullets catching the nearest enemy in the head. He fell backwards onto one of his comrades, and they both tumbled, falling off the old building. Arkansas heard a low crack and thud as they hit the floor, out of sight, and then sighed, before diving out of the way, as the remaining soldiers yelled out in fury and opened fire. Alabama rushed forward, his energy shield taking the brunt of the attack, and pumped the shotgun into action, the blast taking the target straight off his feet. A Command soldier lashed out with the end of his gun, cracking Alabama across the helmet, damaging his visor, instantly impairing him.

_Idiot!_ Arkansas thought to himself as Alabama shot about wildly and blindly, bullets ricocheting off the pillars, right next to Iowa's head. He crouched down, Iota scanning the best possible action, and then shot down the last two enemies with the battle rifle. Eta appeared by Alabama, shining a pink glow on his armour.

"Al, stop!" it cried, and the Freelancer obeyed, pausing, and then removing his helmet. The first thing he saw Arkansas standing in front of him, arms folded. He could tell straight away that the red Spartan was _pissed_.

"Do you have any idea how stupid you've just been?" Arkansas growled. The younger man looked down at the floor, embarrassed. "Not only could have gotten yourself killed by running straight at them, but you nearly shot Iowa as well! Now, help me pick him up. We can discuss this matter later. Leave your helmet here, and hopefully we can collect and repair it later."

Alabama nodded, placing his helmet down and moving towards Iowa. The injured Spartan was in a bad way. His armour had buckled where the sniper bullet had hit his side, blood running freely from the hole and streaking the grey colour. Several smaller bullet holes were dotted about, too, indicating he hadn't been able to defend himself adequately enough. His breathing was heavy and forced, almost like he was struggling to do so. When Arkansas and Alabama picked him up under each arm, his legs dragged uselessly, his head lolling from side to side.

"God damn it," muttered Arkansas. "He's barely conscious! This is serious..."

Suddenly, a loud whooping noise made the two aware Freelancers jump, and they turned to see a silver Spartan shooting up into the dark. There was a pause, and then a Command soldier fell from the sky, hitting the ground with an unpleasant crunch.

"...What in the hell?" Alabama said loudly. Arkansas merely shook his head, bewildered.

* * *

Massachusetts watched as two Freelancers went to help the injured one, and found herself slightly relieved, which surprised her. There was a brief battle, and she observed with interest as the green Spartan ran forward and nearly got himself killed. Then Sigma whispered to her in her head.

_Target is approaching. Get ready, on my mark._

Massachusetts plucked the device off her belt, grinning behind her visor.

_Mark!_

The abruptness startled the Freelancer, as she had been expecting a count of three, but luckily she reacted quickly anyway, and slammed the device to the ground. A gravity lift opened out, and she was flung up high into the air.

"Woo hoo!" she yelled excitedly, the speed of her ascent exhilarating. If she missed now...she wouldn't survive the fall.

The hornet flew overhead at exactly the right moment, and she grabbed hold of one of its railings, dangling freely with one hand, her weight tilting the entire aircraft. With some difficulty, as she lacked sufficient upper body strength, she clambered up to the cockpit, got in, punched the stunned and terrified pilot in the face, and then threw him out, watching with amusement as he tumbled elegantly into the darkness below. She brought the hornet back down to almost ground level, right outside the base entrance, detaching the huge crate of cargo, and then climbed back in, before firing merrily at the Command soldiers that came to investigate the commotion. She then flew it up and fired a few rockets out, proud of her destruction, before taking the hornet a safe distance back to the base. Once it had landed, she got out, pleased with herself. The two Spartans, who were supporting the other, stopped in front of her.

"While I admit acquiring the hornet was good work," Arkansas said, "I must know something. How did you know it would be there, and what does the crate contain?"

Massachusetts smirked triumphantly behind her visor.

"My A.I. scanned their signals. Turns out, they were bringing over ammunition, food, and water supplies as their own stocks were getting low. I just hijacked their drop-off craft."

With that, she sauntered happily away, leaving the others to stare in wonder.

* * *

The three Spartans burst into the office making the lone, pale green Freelancer with light blue shoulder guards and a light blue stripe on her helmet stand up abruptly, their hand automatically reaching for the gun on their leg holster.

"Stand down, Ohio," Arkansas said, holding up Iowa alongside Alabama as best as he could. She nodded and hastily pulled out a sheet on the floor, the only thing she could do in such short notice. The facility had very little medical equipment, and Ohio had to simply improvise with what she had.

Once Iowa had been laid down, Ohio removed the armour that protected her arms, and then took off her helmet, dumping it carelessly on the ground. She needed as little restriction as possible if she was going to take care of her patients properly. As the only pure medical Freelancer and certified doctor, she alone was trusted to take care of the wounded. Ohio struggled with the clasps that released Iowa's armour from his body, and then asked could one of the men do it. Alabama stooped down and undid them all, gently removing the plating and putting it in a corner while Ohio went to wash her hands thoroughly, disliking even the slightest bit of grime from the mucky armour. Then she decided that her own armour would only get in the way, and so removed all of it, until all she wore was the skin-tight body suit, which protected a Spartan from irritation caused by the metal. It stopped at her neck and wrists, but covered everything else. However, it left little to the imagination. When Ohio returned to the room quite flustered, Arkansas and Alabama looked away, embarrassed. She ignored them and knelt down, undoing and peeling back Iowa's suit to his waist, before examining the damage. A low hiss of disapproval escaped from between her teeth, and she shook her head.

"He's not been having a good time, has he?" she said, her thick Southern accent breaking the silence. The Spartans didn't reply, but she hadn't expected them to. "There's nothing more you can do here. Go back to defending our base, and try to make sure no one else gets hurt. I'm just about coping with these terrible conditions as it is."

The two Freelancers gave mutters of confirmation, and then left, closing the door quietly behind them. Ohio sighed. The guy was in a bad way. Had she been in a sterilised working place, there would be nothing to worry about, but she was low on medical supplies, low on space, and low on patience. When she had first walked into the room, two months ago, she had nearly died of shock. It had been _filthy_. Ohio had set about cleaning as best as she could, recruiting others to help her. It hadn't been perfect, but at least passable. Still, it meant the injured man was at a highly risky stage. The dirty conditions put him in danger of lethal infection, so she would have to work quickly.

Removing the correct tools from her bag, she set to work, easing out the bullets from bloody holes in the Freelancer's flesh. Her A.I., Rho appeared over her shoulder, projecting from her helmet, which had been left on the floor.

"I suggest going for the largest one, just underneath his ribcage. It is precariously close to his lung, and any sudden movement on his part, which may happen once he wakes up, could cause it to pierce the said organ."

"A sniper bullet? Usually they go straight through, ripping the insides apart in the process."

"I believe his energy shields and armour slowed the bullet down, although, obviously, not enough. He is extremely lucky though. Had it been travelling even slightly faster than it was, it would have made contact with the lung."

Ohio nodded. Rho was extremely useful in the sense that she could analyse the body without any equipment, giving an accurate diagnostic in seconds. She was the 'medical' A.I., and teamed with Ohio, they could patch up a person in minutes. She turned to the wound in question, and began the long and arduous task of removing the bullet without causing further damage.

* * *

A week later, Command launched their final assault.

It came at daybreak, the single shot from the tank, which blasted a hole straight through their defences, before Command troops swarmed in. The Scorpion tank followed, firing blasts at the scattering Freelancers, whilst foot soldiers let their guns blaze. As the Spartans had intercepted the supplies, they felt the only thing left to do was to attack. Within minutes, however, the Freelancers were ready. Grenades rained down on the soldiers, but the tank had such strong firepower, that they often found themselves retreating for cover. Massachusetts watched from above, the loud bang jolting her from her sleep.

_Shit_.

Perhaps she could get to the hornet in time.

* * *

Bullets whizzed past Arkansas' head, the roar of them deafening. The screams of the enemy dying was a good thing, but it still chilled him to the bone to know he was causing their unspeakable agony. These weren't those alien bastards from the Covenant. These were people, his fellow man, yet still he slaughtered them like animals. He watched the tank warily, hoping it hadn't spotted him yet, when a loud noise overhead made him look up. He saw the hornet, and held his breath. It could be shot down at any moment. Then the tank started acting erratically. Arkansas watched it with curiosity as it swivelled around wildly, before settling its sights on its own men.

Then it fired.

"...why did Command just attack itself?" Arkansas said aloud. Iota appeared on his shoulder.

"I do believe an A.I. has taken control of the tank."

"Which A.I.?"

* * *

Massachusetts watched in amazement as the tank blasted away half of Command's army in single shot. She thought Sigma had been bluffing when she said she could move between hosts. Then she felt the A.I. leave her head. Now there was a tank running rampant around the battlefield. Smiling happily to herself at how awesome her A.I. was, she began spraying bullets and shooting rockets at the men below, humming as she went. Then Sigma appeared by her shoulder.

"I couldn't hold it for long...I need practice," Sigma mumbled, her bright purple exterior darkened considerably.

"Is the tank rendered inoperable?" Massachusetts asked.

"Err...no."

"Shit."

She glanced down, watching as the barrel rose up to fire at her. She glanced down at the ground.

They weren't _that_ high up.

"Time to go!" she yelled, and then opened the hornet door out, leaping from it. It exploded behind her, flinging her forward onto the ground so that she skidded across, sparks flying up as the metal scraped along the floor, before finally slamming into a wall. Her head rang, her vision blurred and warped, while her hearing had almost gone altogether. She watched as the hornet fell out of the air, landing on top of the tank and setting fire to it, before slipping out of consciousness.

* * *

"I didn't know that A.I. could jump from host to host!" Arkansas shouted as the hornet opened fire on the enemy below.

"Not all can," replied Iota. "In fact, only Sigma and Omega seem capable of it, but whereas Omega can move on a permanent basis, Sigma has to return to a sourced chip."

Suddenly, the hornet exploded overhead, and Arkansas watched as the Spartan controlling fell to the floor, rolling along and crashing into a stone wall.

They didn't get up.

Arkansas glanced up at the enemy. They were currently distracted by the 'malfunction' of the tank.

Good.

He quickly sprinted over to the unconscious Spartan, shouldering his gun and then picking them up, putting them on his back almost like a parent would their child, and then running clumsily back to the base. Command finally noticed him, and they opened fire, the bullets reflecting off his dwindling energy shield. He ran inside the base and put the Freelancer down, patting the shoulder of one of the other Spartans, and then jogging back out again, gun raised, ready to fend the enemy off.

* * *

Alabama was having a tough time. He'd already been shot twice: once in leg, and again in the side. The numb pain and discomfort at the feeling of the wedged bullets made it difficult to concentrate. Blood was slowly oozing through his armour, trailing slowly down his skin, driving him mad, and the sweat on his forehead made the inside of his new helmet sticky. He could hold back the attackers, especially since the tank had just been destroyed, but if Command made an advance forward, he wouldn't be able to move fast enough to retreat of counterattack. Arkansas appeared by his side.

"How are you holding out?" the older Freelancer asked, and Alabama nodded, not wanting to point out he was injured. He raised his battle rifle, peering through the scope and firing at the heads of soldiers, watching as their bodies crumpled to the ground with each pull of the trigger. Arkansas did likewise, picking off any that dared step out of rank to advance. Then a grenade was thrown, landing next to the two Freelancers.

"Go!" yelled Arkansas, already on his feet. Alabama tried to move with the same speed and swiftness, but the bullet in his leg and side slowed him down. The grenade went off as he took a few steps forward, and he was flung high into the air, like a ragdoll, before hitting the ground hard, the breath being knocked right out of him. He looked to his left, spotting Arkansas lying motionless not far away from him. Apparently he hadn't been fast enough either.

The rest of the Freelancers were retreating, and so Alabama struggled to sit up, not wanting to be left for dead outside. A Commander soldier spotted him, and raised his gun to shoot, finishing him off, when there was a loud crack. The enemy fell dead, and Alabama looked up, to see Iowa leaning perched on the upmost barracks, sniper rifle in hand.

_He recovered quick_, he thought to himself, but then shook his head, causing it to ache violently as he did.

Iowa just saved his ass. Question his miraculous healing rate later.

Alabama crawled over to Arkansas, his legs strangely numb, meaning he couldn't stand properly. As he raised a hand to shake the red Spartan, however, Arkansas groaned and sat up, putting a hand to his helmet.

* * *

Massachusetts staggered to her feet, her head spinning.

It had been quite a drop.

She listened as the gunfire became louder and louder, and realised they were finally advancing. A black armoured Freelancer noticed she was awake and walked over to her.

"You alright? I saw your jump. I'm surprised you weren't killed."

"I've got better things to do than die," she snorted, checking her guns were still intact and loaded.

"Good to hear. Go take up the turrets with the others at the barracks; see if you can drive them back."

Massachusetts nodded and made her way up the stairs, leaning occasionally against the walls for support. When she reached the top, she half strode, half limped forward, grasping the steel turret with both hands and pointing it at the enemy. Bullets shot out from it, and she mowed Command down, blood flying into the air and painting the floor red. Then out of the corner of her eye, she saw a Warthog driving towards them, and she swivelled her gun around, ready to shoot them down. However, the gunner of the jeep was quicker, and he opened fire, knocking her off her feet as the bullets hit her energy shield, some bouncing off, but a good deal breaking through and shredding through her already damaged armour. Pain ripped through her as the little chunks of steel made contact with flesh, and she lay on the ground, blood spurting up between her trembling lips.

"Shit!" she heard someone shout out, their voice hazy, crouching down to help her, just as the Warthog's turret turned its wrath on them. It ended with Massachusetts and two more Freelancers in critical states, before someone had thrown a plasma grenade onto the jeep, exploding it in a blue inferno.

Then everything went black.


	3. Sophisticated Driving

**Sophisticated Driving**

The Director sat at his desk, the cool, reflective surfaces of his office giving a sense cold efficiency and importance. Black marble covered every inch of the floor, polished to mirror perfection, the tinted glass walls gleaming with similar flawless quality. The dim lights set symmetrically provided little illumination of the room, casting everything in eerie shadow, which the Director preferred. He uncrossed his legs, his shiny black shoes squeaking on the smooth floor, and then looked down. There was a small piece of fluff which had landed on the trouser leg of his immaculate black suit, with a brilliant white, creaseless shirt, and a deep red tie, knotted tight to his throat. He brushed it off impatiently.

The only other source of light in the room was the lone computer, sleek and black, top of the range, and the source of the Director's power. From this machine he could view over everything he had worked so hard to obtain, and could alter the slightest detail, or indeed, his entire empire, from the press of a button.

How quaint.

The Director sighed and pushed the slender and expensive glasses up to the bridge of his nose, irritated that they had even slipped down. Money was supposed to buy quality. He tapped his fingers on the black glass desk, the noise ringing through the silver metal frame. He shouldn't be late. The Director was a firm believer in sound timekeeping, and yet his employee was ten minutes overdue. There had better be something damn important to disrupt his incredibly hectic schedule. He could feel the anger lurking beneath, churning in his stomach, but he took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and tilting his head to the glossy ceiling, drawing the air in deep through pursed lips. He exhaled, and then looked down again, glancing over to the bottle of fine port next to his computer, the light reflecting off its smooth exterior.

The Director picked up the glass and bottle, and poured himself a drink, sipping delicately and sitting back in his leather office chair, almost relaxed. Perhaps it was a good thing his employee was late; it meant he could be off guard, even if only for a few moments. He put his head back against the soft, cushioned headrest of the chair, sighing and taking a mouthful of the sweet, rust-red liquid again, letting the rich taste slide across his tongue.

_Bliss_.

The buzzer on his grey, wired phone sounded, a low throb, bursting to be silenced. The Director tried to ignore it, wounded that his few seconds of peace had been cut short – robbed from him. He screwed his eyes shut, his glasses pushing right into his face, but it was no use – the temptation to stop the little noise was too great. It was as if it was eating away him, demanding his attention. His will broke, and he slammed his finger down on the receiving button.

"Yes?" he said sharply, and the intercom crackled.

"He's here to see you, Sir," the receptionist replied, their voice giving the sense that they were not bothered by their employer's harsh tone. It was as if they were used to the short temper of the overworked, stressed man, and did not give his abrupt, and sometimes rude, manner a second thought.

"Send him in," The Director said, scowling. _Fifteen _minutes late, he was! In that time, he had been left to his free thought, something that he loathed immensely. He always tried to keep himself busy, often working himself into a state of exhaustion, but it was preferable to the alternative. When the Director had nothing else to do but sip port and stare at the walls, he often cast his mind back to creation of Project Freelancer...and of its origins. Had it been right, to do what he did? To split a mind the way he had, and of course, not just _any_ old mind...

The Director sighed, knowing now that the thoughts would not go until they had run the same repetitive course. He would remind himself that he had no option; it had to be done. Then he would think of her...and stay on that track of mind until one of his employees interrupted his train of thought and requested something, or, mercifully, he fell asleep. During the earlier years of his life, memories had ceased to surface, so caught up in the excitement of life he was. However, as he reached his older years, they had done nothing but plague him and his nightmares for years on end. The Director sighed again deeply.

He was so _tired_ of it all.

The door to his office slid open effortlessly, and a flustered looking man hurried down the long walkway to the secluded desk in the spacious and almost empty room. The Director winced; the man before him was so...untidy. His uniform, which was usually as spotless as his own, was crumpled and creased, and sporting a telltale sign of spilt coffee.

"I apologise for my lateness, Sir," the Counsellor said, noticing the glare of his employer and attempting to fix his clothes. The Director nodded curtly, giving the signal to continue. "My presence was needed at the A.I. implantation facility."

The Director often wondered how the Counsellor kept her voice perfectly level and calm in moments of panic. It did wonders for soothing the anger of the Freelancers when they had their A.I. forcefully removed.

The ones who had been caught, at least.

However, sometimes, the Counsellor's voice sparked irritation inside the Director. He often thought he was being treated like an armed explosive, ready to detonate at any moment. True, he did often feel as such, but there was no reason to imply it with every word coming out of the man's damn mouth.

"_Why_ were you needed there?" the Director asked bluntly, staring at his glass as he swirled the port around inside.

"Agent Washington, Sir."

"Oh?"

"He arrived yesterday morning, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Indeed I am."

"I've been overseeing the removal of his A.I. since then...for over twenty four hours. Without sleep."

The Director said nothing, so the Counsellor continued.

"We have successfully separated Epsilon from Washington, but we don't know as of yet how much damage his mind has received, or even if he will recover from it. Also, we're trying to determine as to why Epsilon did what it did...but it is nearly impossible. The A.I. logs are a mess. Anyone who tried to listen to them began to act as Washington did."

"Do you think Epsilon was the Alpha's memory?" the Director asked suddenly. The Counsellor shook his head.

"If it was, then we will know soon enough. When Washington wakes up, his mind will be a wreck. He won't be able to hide anything from us."

The Director nodded.

"If Agent Washington does show signs of knowing...the truth..." the Director paused, draining the last of his port and placing the glass down with a clink. "Kill him."

* * *

Shades of blur and black drifted through her visions, stretching out as a darkened mist into eternity. Voices, explosions, screams of agony; they wailed mercilessly around her thoughts, her head in such pain it felt as if it was on the verge of splitting in two.

Then there was silence.

This scared her the most, for why would there be quiet in a scene of war? Either they had held, and the enemy had retreated, or they had been beaten down, crushed for their rebellion.

Or maybe she was dead.

She tried to move, but found her body a dead weight, the attempt exhausting her even further. The tone of the black deepened, and then lightened out again. Someone was holding a damp material to her forehead. She wanted to swat them away, but still her arms refused to obey her. However, she could hear the voices again, faint mutterings in the distance and so she kept still, not wanting to lose them again. The voices grew louder, so much so that it began to hurt, and a slight groan escaped her lips, the dry skin an effort to move apart. The damp material disappeared, and a cool hand instead brushed against her skin, lifting up her eyelids, exploring and checking her all over.

"Stop it," she mumbled, and finally forced open her eyes open. Instantly, blinding light burst into her vision, and splintering agony snapped through her head. She screwed her eyes shut again, but it wasn't long before she pined for the light, and so braved it once more. The burning sensation ripped through her again, but she refused to break, and slowly but surely, it ebbed away. A face appeared over her.

"Agent Massachusetts?" they asked. Massachusetts gave a mumble of confirmation, and the face smiled. "My name is Ohio. You suffered multiple bullet wounds to your chest, and so you were brought to me. You nearly didn't pull through, but luckily, Rho and I found some crucial medication in the supplies you stole."

"I…thought there…was…no cure…for bullets," Massachusetts replied, struggling form her words. Ohio nodded.

"True, but Rho and I…improvised."

"Improvised…?"

"We, uh, did a bit of mixing and guessing, and in the process, made a new medicine."

"…Your 'new medicine'…could have easily…turned out to be…poison."

Ohio blushed, and it occurred to Massachusetts that she had been aware of it.

"Yes, there were considerable risks…but my A.I., Rho, is specialised in medicine. I'm certain she knew what she was doing."

"And…you?"

"Well…no. I just did what I was told. At least it worked, and just in time, too."

Massachusetts nodded slowly, staring at the ceiling as she did, disgusted by how filthy it was.

"…Thank you."

* * *

Alabama limped along the pathway, nudging bodies with his gun, before shooting them to double check if they were dead. Ohio had patched him up quickly, removing the bullets in his side and leg, before turning and dealing the female, silver Freelancer, who had been badly injured in the combat. Arkansas himself had managed to get away with a few bruises and a mild concussion. The red Spartan hadn't been happy with Alabama for lying about his wounds in the battle, and had lectured him over it, before setting out to find and eliminate any survivors.

After the Warthog had shot down and few Freelancers, and then subsequently destroyed, someone managed to locate the misplaced rocket launchers, which had been at the bottom of the stolen supplies, out of sight. Within minutes, when all able Freelancers had been armed with the new weapons, the battle had been won. What was left of Command had fled, after been given the order to retreat. Now they were simply checking for any wounded Freelancers that may have been missed before, and making sure all the bodies left behind were _dead_ ones.

"I think that's it, Al," Arkansas called out to him from across the grounds of the base, emptying a round from his battle rifle in the head of a motionless Command soldier. Alabama nodded and signalled confirmation in response, and then shot the Command officer at his feet. He paused, and then kicked the dead man in between the legs, for good measure.

Arkansas waited for Alabama to make his way over, and then walked back with him to the base. It took time, as the bullet wound hindered the green Spartan's movement greatly, and by the time they had gotten to their destination, Alabama was well and truly tired. His side ached constantly, and walking with a limp seemed to just take the energy out of him.

"I'm gonna go lie down…" he mumbled to Arkansas, before heading up the stairs.

On the top floor, next to the area where Ohio was single-handedly dealing with all the injured Spartans, hundreds of sheets, scraps of cardboard, and other soft materials had been scattered around as makeshift beds. They weren't comfortable, and did little in the way of warmth, but it was better than sleeping on the stone floor. Alabama hobbled over to the nearest one and practically dropped onto it, his armour clanging through the thin material. There was a moment of silence, and then a voice made him jump.

"Hey, Al."

Alabama turned and looked to his left, to see Iowa without his armour sat up against a wall not far away from him, a book in hand.

"Iowa," Alabama replied, painfully forcing himself up. "Can I ask something?"

"Shoot."

"Well, when Ark and I pulled you from the snipe point, you were a mess; not even conscious. Yet within a week you saved my ass from that Command soldier after the grenade had gone off. How the hell did you recover so fast?"

"I guess Ohio is just a damn good doctor. I'm still injured, though. She just patched me up enough, by request, so that I could at least snipe from the med room window."

Alabama nodded, lying back down on the hard floor, staring at the ceiling.

"Thanks, Iowa," he said finally, tired sweeping over him once more. Iowa smiled.

"Don't mention it."

* * *

The next few weeks at the base were quiet; the Freelancers simply trying to recover before they made their next move. What that move was exactly, nobody knew, and an air of confusion hung over them all.

Then the Freelancers started disappearing.

When the first few vanished, nobody noticed, but as more began to skip their duties, Arkansas realised they were actually leaving, going off to find their own way of living. He had considered the idea himself a few times, but he thought that leaving so early was a bad idea. They would only make easy pickings for Command. Of course, not everyone agreed with him.

Massachusetts checked her guns were loaded, before putting them back in the holster. She had no idea if she was making the right choice, but she couldn't stay here any longer.

"Everyone will leave eventually, Massachusetts," Sigma said flitting across the visor of her host's helmet. "It's just we're doing it before Command realises we're on the move. Anyone who stays behind will be captured."

Massachusetts nodded, and began to stride towards the exit of the base, not noticing the red Spartan leaning casually against a wall until he spoke to her.

"You're going out there on foot?"

Massachusetts whipped around, staring at the Freelancer.

"I haven't got much choice," she replied, shrugging. "I want out, and so I'm getting out, whether I can get hold of a vehicle or not."

The red Spartan nodded, and then motioned for her to follow him.

"I have something to show you."

Curiosity overpowered her suspicion, and she did as he asked, walking slightly behind him as he led her to an open building in the base. Inside the dark, she could make out a large structure. The red Freelancer hit the lights on, revealing a Warthog, which had been salvaged from the recent battle.

"You hijacked Command, giving us the supplies necessary to win our fight. I doubt the outcome would have been in our favour if they had attacked us before your stunt. So, the jeep is yours."

Massachusetts stared at the Spartan, speechless.

"Good luck out there," the Spartan continued, nodding to her. "You'll need it."

Massachusetts watched, gobsmacked, as he walked away, and then turned to the jeep.

"Awesome," she said, grinning and vaulting into it, starting it up.

"Do you even know how to drive?" Sigma asked cautiously. Massachusetts shrugged.

"A bit, but I'm not very good at it."

She instantly proved this point by reversing into the wall. Sigma stared while Massachusetts laughed, before driving forward and out the building, and then smashing into the gate she was meant to be driving out of.

_Plenty of time to improve_, Massachusetts thought happily to herself, before finally manoeuvring the Warthog out, knocking over a stack of metal barrels as she went. In the distance, Arkansas watched with amusement at her terrible driving. He felt she deserved the Warthog, but whether she would last long enough out there to enjoy it was a different matter entirely.

Whether any of them would survive at all was an even bigger question.

* * *

"Do you know where I can find Agent Massachusetts?"

Iowa glanced at the brown armoured Spartan. He decided to brave walking across the complex, trying to get on his own two feet again, when the Freelancer had wandered through the gates of the base.

"No, sorry, I don't."

"Oh, it's just this was her last known location," the Freelancer replied. Iowa realised he probably hadn't been present at fight against Command. Not every Freelancer got out at the same time.

"Last I heard she left three days ago. Went to find her way in the world or something like that."

The brown Spartan sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. A green A.I. appeared by his shoulder.

"The logical direction for Agent Massachusetts to take would be the nearest city where she can find security and work immediately. There are more places to hide in the 'dangerous' parts of the city, where criminals would be willing to provide protection for a favour in return."

"What's the nearest city from here, Delta?" the brown Freelancer asked his A.I.

"Connection is low here, York. I can't assess anything while we remain in this area."

"Damn it."

"How did you get out of Command?" Iowa said suddenly, looking up at York.

"I hacked my way out. Took some time, but Command underestimated my skill and put me in a room sealed with holographic locks," York replied, shrugging. Iowa stared.

"You got through _holographic_ locks?"

"Yep. It's not that difficult if you know your stuff, and as I spent my time training as a hacker and lock pick expert, I think I'm under that category. I didn't really care for guns during training anyway."

York sighed again, and then turned to leave, but stopped when Iowa spoke again.

"Wait, York!"

"Yeah?" York replied, glancing over his shoulder at the grey Freelancer.

"Look…why don't you stay here for a bit? We could do with someone like you, and you're more likely to last longer here than out there on your own. Command is still pissed that we kicked their asses."

York paused.

"Will it help me find Massa?" he asked finally, facing the grey Spartan properly. It took Iowa a moment to figure out who he meant.

"You mean Massachusetts? I don't know, but I've been speaking with Ark and a few others. Some of us are moving out in a few days. We've stayed here long enough. We're going to see if anyone in the city is hiring mercenaries, and if not, we're going to try elsewhere. Want to come with us?"

"It would be the logical decision to do so, York," Delta said, his green light glowing on his host's armour. "However, it would mean the chances of finding Agent Massachusetts would be significantly lowered."

"Lowered…" York repeated, not sounding happy about it.

"Keep in mind that going on your own would mean it more likely Command will find and catch you, resulting in no chance of finding Massachusetts," the A.I. continued.

Iowa shrugged.

"Your call, York."


	4. Death by Fork

**Death by Fork**

Massachusetts threw herself to the floor as a gun fired, her heart racing as the bullets deflected off the wall behind her. Usually she wouldn't have been so alarmed, but she had had little sleep, and was feeling quite jumpy. She'd just gotten off the main streets of the city, heading to an abandoned underground train station. Trains had been obsolete for nearly fifty years now, as the light transportation tunnels had become the main public transport. She tried to peer around the metal crate giving her cover, but then quickly pulled away as several badly aimed guns shot at her again. She glanced down at her scanner, trying to see how many were there, but it kept flickering on and off, apparently damaged. Then she realised the signal down in the underground was simply too low to give a decent scan.

"Would you like me to pinpoint their locations?" Sigma asked, her image appearing on the Spartan's visor.

"You can do that?" Massachusetts shouted over the roar of metal bullets. Sigma nodded. "Go for it!"

There was a slight flash of pale purple on the orange part of Massachusetts' helmet, and then a detailed image and description appeared, giving exactly where each enemy was, as well as showing them on the shot of the area.

"How did you get a picture?" Massachusetts asked, blinking. Sigma shrugged.

"There's a security camera right behind you."

"Oh."

"So, what's your plan?"

"Plan? Uhh…I'll probably just chuck a grenade or something and see what happens."

"You don't have a strategy?" Sigma stared at her incredulously." What if the grenade misses?"

Massachusetts shrugged and loaded her gun up.

"Well, I'll just shoot the living fuck out of everything, then."

The Freelancer dived from her position, flicking a grenade into her attackers' hiding place. There were a few moments of panic, voices rising up in fear and surprise, before the grenade exploded, flinging charred bodies up into the air. At that precise moment, a group of people jumped out, wearing all black, their faces covered. They ran straight at the opposite group, who were in grey. Massachusetts groaned.

She was in the middle of a gang war.

_Well, seeing how the grey motherfuckers shot at me first, I'mma take them out,_ she thought to herself. Sigma sighed.

"Massa, if we analyse the situation and look which group is most profitable to our help, then-"

"Sig, they tried to fill my ass with bullets," Massachusetts replied, crouching before a crumbling pillar support. "There is no fucking way I'm going to side with them now."

The Freelancer then jumped out, not waiting for Sig's reply, and sprinted forward, taking down several grey figures with headshots from her battle rifle. Another grenade flew from her hand, punching a hole through the defences. The greys retreated back, and Massachusetts watched happily as they fled. Then she noticed the black clad group were staring at her, stunned.

"You chasing after 'em, or are you gonna let 'em away? Follow me," she said, motioning at them and rolling her eyes. To her surprise, they did as asked, and within minutes, they were moving through the gloomy tunnels, keeping alert to the slightest noise. However, they quickly reached a split train track with no indication as to which route had been taken.

"Sig, do you know which way they went?" Massachusetts asked, scanning the darkness for signs of life. There was none, and she waited patiently for her A.I.'s response.

"Who's that you're talking to?" a man called out to her, looking suspicious. He raised his gun edgily, and Massachusetts whipped around, her own pistol pointed at him.

"Bring that up another inch and I'll your head off," she growled. The gang member froze, and glanced around at his friends for their opinion. They either looked away or shook their heads, so he lowered his gun again, slightly red. Massachusetts nodded at him, and then brought Sigma up for them all to see.

"This is Sigma, the person I was talking to. She's like a…computer thing, only she has a mind of her own. She was just scanning the area to check where those Greys had gone."

"Oh, OK."

Massachusetts stared.

"This…this is state of the art technology, and you're not, like, amazed by it or anything?"

"Nah; you explained it pretty well."

"...Right. Anyway, Sig, any idea where they went?"

"None," Sigma replied, shaking her head. Massachusetts sighed and put her pistol back in its holster.

"Looks like we best get on the move again, then," she mumbled grumpily, irritated she had been denied her fight. As she walked past the gang members, however, one of them called out to her.

"Our boss would want to meet someone like you. Tell me, are you looking for a job?"

Massachusetts turned and glanced back at the speaker, the one who had raised his gun to her earlier.

"As a matter of fact, I _am_," she replied, grinning from behind her visor.

* * *

Anton Dokovic Petrenko looked up expectantly as one of his men knocked on the door of his office and walked in. He put down his book and placed his hands together in an arch, his elbows on the desk, waiting for whatever information was about to be given for him. Most likely a report on how the assault against the Hawks fared. He was the leader of the black clad gang, The Dark Wolves, and expected to know every inch of his operation against their enemies, The Grey Hawks.

"Sir," the man said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder after placing a file on Anton's desk, "There's someone here to see you; Gaz picked him up."

"Send him through," Anton replied smoothly, nodding at the gang member, and then swiftly picked his book up again off the desk, returning to his place. It was, in fact, a play by William Shakespeare, but he enjoyed it all the same. As he read, he reached a line that he found particularly liked, and read it aloud.

"O, it is excellent to have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant," he quoted, his faint Russian accent rolling the R's. At that precise moment, Massachusetts walked in.

"Pfft," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "Who cares if it's tyrannous? If you have a giant's strength, it'll only be because you _are_ a giant."

Anton looked up at the source of the female voice, his eyes settling on the bulky Spartan in front of him.

"You appear to have missed the point completely, Miss…?"

Massachusetts snorted. "I don't care for the point. If I had the advantage, I'd use it. Leave ethics to those who give a damn."

A slight smiled appeared on Anton's lips, but he forced it to quickly disappear again.

"I am Anton Dokovic Petrenko, leader of The Dark Wolves. Who are you?" he asked, his tone icy.

"I'm Massachusetts, and I'm looking for work. Your guys sent me in here."

"I see. I was under the impression that you were…a man. They even said as much."

"Then it's clear they haven't had action in such a long time that they've forgotten what a girl looks like. Am I right?"

This time, Anton couldn't help but grin. The woman had 'balls', so to speak, unlike many of the weak-willed women he had encountered. He didn't usually employ females; they were stupid and got in the way…but this one seemed different. He glanced down at the report, flicking through it. He paused, before reading about the section on the Freelancer. There was a long silence. Then he glanced up at her.

"You single-handedly took out all the Hawks?" he asked, stunned. Massachusetts shrugged.

"They fight like idiots, and are clearly either inexperienced or just plain stupid. They probably didn't even get decent training with guns. I was in clear view of them the whole time and they didn't get one damn hit."

"We've always had difficulty with them."

"Well, then your men aren't trained to a good standard either."

"Hmmm," Anton said to himself, looking at Massachusetts as if he was analysing her. "I think we can make a deal. What's your price?"

"For the moment, a place to live and good food. Oh, and something to do to keep me from being bored. Might change in the future, though."

"Well," Anton said, nodding, "how about this? You train my men to be your standard and assist them on the field, and I'll provide you with a place to hide."

"Hide?"

"The military rebellion was all over the underground news. Your 'Command' sent out a message to every worthy criminal in town. You're going to have a lot of people after your 'A.I.', as big money is being shelled out for them. Expect a few assassins."

"So, how the hell can you 'protect' me?"

"Business in the crime world always starts slow. By the time people are ready to take you down, you'll already have my men at an acceptable level. It would be difficult to get near with a gang of skilled men surrounding you."

Massachusetts studied Anton for a few moments. The way he spoke indicated to her that he was a quiet man by nature – tall, broad, and pale-skinned; a silent figure. He had short, ash blonde hair and pale grey-blue eyes set in a round-ish, borderline gaunt, face. His eyebrows and lashes were dark, despite his hair colour, and his nose was short and strong, the tip only slightly turned up. He had a firm, curved jaw line, a trimmed goatee at his chin, and thin, cruel looking mouth. His accent was decidedly American, but traces of Russian crept in whenever he pronounced his R's and L's. He gave off a very menacing and dangerous impression.

Massachusetts liked that.

"I'm convinced," she said. "Sign me up."

Anton Dokovic Petrenko smiled, showing his white teeth, with sharp, gleaming canines.

* * *

Massachusetts sat in the service room turned canteen, eating her meal quietly in the corner, the table she was sat on empty. All around were men staring at her, muttering comments about her and her A.I.

Why was she there? Was it true the government wanted her? Was she part robot? Did the A.I. control her?

Eventually Massachusetts sighed and put her fork down, looking up at them with a tired expression.

"Hey, assholes," she called out, and the room fell silent. She paused, letting her gaze travel all the way around the room, before continuing. "You know, if you wanna know shit about me, just _ask_. I'm here because I'm bored, and because those bastard Hawks tried to shoot me in the ass for no good reason. The government does not want me, but my own Command does, simply because I got the better of them. Also, because they want to destroy my A.I., Sigma. I'm not a robot, as I'm sitting here right now, totally human, and no, Sig does not control me. She'd have a fucking job on her hands if she did. Now, if you want to know anything else, approach me and ask. Also, if I catch any of you staring at me again, I'll gouge your eyes out with this fork."

There was a long silence, in which everyone simply stared at her.

Massachusetts raised her fork.

Everyone looked away hastily, and chatter slowly returned to the room. Satisfied, Massachusetts continued with her meal.

* * *

"So, you're one of them A.I. hosts, huh?"

Massachusetts shrugged, sitting down on her bed heavily, her armour piled untidily in a corner. She'd been at this place for two months, but had never seen her roommate until now. She had an Asian complexion, despite her American accent, and was one of the few females here; Massachusetts brought the total to a grand number of five.

"Yeah, I guess I am," she replied, lying down and staring up at the ceiling. The girl opposite chuckled, sat in a black vest top and tiny, black pyjama shorts, and knee-high, black stockings; a stark contrast to her light ochre skin. Massachusetts glanced at her, and then sat up, fixing the old clothes that someone had given her, which were similar to the girl's, except with long trousers. "What's so funny?"

"The government is such a fuck up," she said, flicking her dark purple, pixie-cut hair away from her face. "Implanting computers into peoples' heads? Bullshit, man."

Massachusetts scowled as Sigma appeared from her armour in the corner.

"Don't be so quick to judge," the Freelancer said, narrowing her eyes. "Sigma is incredibly useful, and pretty damn awesome. Also, it has nothing to do with the government. Technically."

"Whatever," the girl replied, rolling her eyes. "You're on the run and on a bunch of hit lists thanks to them."

"So? Adds to the fun."

The girl looked at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

"You're gutsy. Name's Ellie Littler, but call me El."

"Massachusetts; Massa is a helluva lot easier, though."

"And your real name?" El asked, her eyebrow rising slightly.

"Emma."

"Emma? Kind of a soft for a brutal Spartan like you."

"So sue me."

El stood up and stretched, yawning, her top riding up slightly to reveal her flat stomach, a piercing in her bellybutton. She also had silver stud 'snakebites' on the left of her top lip, a blue metal bar through her right eyebrow, and several studs up and down each ear. There was even a small hoop through her nose. Deep black eyeliner circled her slanted eyes, with dark eye shadow applied carefully on the lids. Chipped purple nail varnish was on her fingernails, and thin, colourful bracelets decorated her wrists.

"How the hell did a skinny Goth-child like you get into such a sexist gang?" Massachusetts asked suddenly, not caring if she was blunt. El shrugged.

"I'm a hacker and lock picker. I broke into this place with intentions to steal some cash, but was found by a guard when he was sent to get some reports. Anton was impressed, so he let me stay. I'd never used a gun until you showed up."

"Never used a gun?" Massachusetts replied, blinking. "Why the fuck not?"

"Well," El said, scratching her head, "I'm a 'behind the scenes' sorta person. I don't really go on the field much."

"And what if the Hawks got in the base? How would you defend yourself?"

El paused, realising what Massachusetts was getting at.

"Good point; I've never thought of it like that before."

"Well, you should have."

There was a slight pause.

"Big job tomorrow," she said, rubbing her eyes, smearing her black makeup and plonking back down onto her bed as the Freelancer lay down herself. "Getting rid of all those Hawks..."

"Do what I taught you and you'll be fine," Massachusetts said, her face in her pillow. Massachusetts had spoken with Anton a week ago, trying to convince him that a real fight would be the best way to test the progress of the gang. Eventually he gave in, and it was decided that they would try and take over the tunnel that led to the sources of the black market. Guns, drugs, and various other things were taken through that section of the tunnel to their destination above ground. The gang that controlled it and allowed it to pass were given discounts on spare goods, which was usually ammunition. Taking it over would be a profitable move, but by no means easy. Anton had hesitated before giving his permission, only agreeing when Massachusetts pointed out that if they couldn't take over such a small territory now then there would be no chance of them ever eradicating the Hawk base for good.

"Mmmm," El said vaguely, picking at the flaking varnish on her nails. "Hey, Emma, have you ever killed anyone?"

"Huh?" Massachusetts looked up at El, almost tempted to laugh. "Are you fucking kidding me? A majority of my time in Command was spent killing people! The army isn't just to look pretty, you know."

"Ohhh...how did you kill them?"

"Guns and copious amounts of explosions. Now, get some sleep; you'll need it."

"But-" El began.

"Sleep, damn it!" Massachusetts said, before flicking off the lamplight.

* * *

"Right, listen up. We're going in today to kick some ass. However, while we're kicking ass, if I give a command, just fucking do it. Don't question me. Just _do_ it. 'K?"

The group of gang members turned soldiers nodded at her, and she smiled behind her visor, feeling strangely proud. She glanced at El, who was barely recognisable. Massachusetts had gone down to the meeting point that morning expecting to see El in full Goth regalia, meaning she'd have to tell her off. However, instead, El had already tidied herself up. The makeup was absent, as was all of her piercings, and her short purple hair had been scraped back and jammed underneath a black hat. A pair of goggles rested on her forehead, which El said were to protect her eyes from dust, when Massachusetts had inquired about them. She also wore full length, loose-fitted jeans, her ratty, black trainers just about visible, and a dirty, black jacket. She clutched a pistol in her hands, looking focused.

The Freelancer signalled for them to move forward, clutching her battle rifle in hand, and they all crept silently towards Hawk territory, freezing at the slightest noise. It turned out that the Wolves hadn't been as bad in combat as she originally thought. Many were ex-soldiers, and others were actually from Command's Sim. Project. All she'd had to do was fine-tune them.

A sudden wave of bullets flew out, and instantly the entire group dived out of the way, falling behind covered areas. Massachusetts looked up and groaned. The Hawks had been waiting for them all this time. She raised her battle rifle, letting Sigma assist her aim in the dark, and then fired, taking one of the guards out with a headshot. Panic flared up in the defences at the sight of one of their men having his head shot to pieces, and Massachusetts gave the signal to charge. The Wolves ran forward, guns blazing, and within minutes, the way to the tunnel entrance was clear.

"Check the bodies for ammunition and weapons," Massachusetts said, crouching down to the nearest guard and taking his gun. "We're going to need it."

_

* * *

_

_Author's Notes: Right, after having a conversation with a reviewer, I've been wondering, who preferred Chapter Twenty-One as the ending to A.I.? I'm leaving a poll up in my profile, and depending on its results I may or may not leave A.I. as is. So, all my A.I. readers please take the time to give your opinion. PM me if you want to add extra opinion._

_For the A.I. readers who didn't see Chp21, it was Sigma's final A.I. log, to put it basically._

_Leilah._

_P.S. Jacob, I know your opinion, so stay away from the poll XD_


	5. O, HAI THAR

**O, HAI THAR.**

"_Power critically low. Recommended instant evac. from aircraft. Power critically low. Recommended instant evac. from aircraft."_

The automated warning looped repeatedly as Agent Mississippi struggled with the controls of the hornet, realising its engine was about to fail. The Freelancer fiddled with the controls desperately, the claustrophobia of the small aircraft making it difficult to breathe, before wrenching off the panel to access the wires underneath, while their A.I. hovered over their shoulder.

"Try that...no...no...you're doing it wrong, Missi. Seriously, wiring that isn't going to help...I suggest you cut the red one," the A.I. said, instructing her Freelancer. Mississippi cut the red wire, and the lights in the hornet went out, before plummeting, spiralling down towards the ground. The Freelancer glanced up at their A.I., tapping their fingers irritably on the control board. The A.I. grinned sheepishly.

"...Uh...jump?"

* * *

"What the-?" Alabama cried, staring down stunned at the card images projected in front of him, while Eta scowled at their loss. "How the hell do you keep winning?"

York shrugged, while Delta drew the holographic game of poker back in, getting ready to shuffle the deck. Delta said nothing, knowing York would not want him to give away their secret.

"I'll deal," Alabama growled, letting Eta shuffle the holograms to his favour. _Let's see the smug bastard win this time..._

York studied Alabama carefully, smirking to himself.

"_I think that Alabama will attempt to cheat in this next game. I recommend I give advice as to what moves would be suitable, as well as using logic to determine Alabama's next move."_

_Hell yeah, he'll cheat_, York said inwardly to Delta. _Do whatever you think is necessary._

Within ten minutes, Alabama was staring defeat in the face again.

Iowa sighed. "Al, can you really not see what's happening? "

York glanced up as innocently as his helmeted face would allow, causing Iowa to snigger. Alabama scowled to himself.

"What? What's he doing?" the Freelancer cried, sitting up straight and pointing at York.

"I'm not doing anything," York replied smoothly. "I think what Iowa means is 'can you not see how badly your ass is getting kicked?'"

Iowa laughed while Alabama made a noise of indignation. He dealt the cards out swiftly, all the while instructing Eta.

_Forget being subtle; let's humiliate him once and for all!_

Arkansas glanced over from the wheel of the Warthog, checking that the others were alright in the back. Iowa noticed him and nodded in confirmation, before returning to staring out of the window at the dry and desolate landscape. Arkansas let his A.I. keep an eye on the Warthog while he watched York and Alabama with amusement for a few moments. The green Freelancer was getting steadily more irritated with his opponent as every single move he made was a mistake in some way.

"Unidentified object approaching," Iota said suddenly, and Arkansas quickly turned around to grab the wheel, expecting a rock or another vehicle to be right in front of them.

There was nothing.

"Unidentified object approaching with great speed," Iota repeated, much to Arkansas' confusion.

"There's nothing there," Arkansas replied, puzzled. Iota shook his head.

"There is an object approaching, Ark. My scanners are never wrong."

The rest of the A.I. flashed up by their owners, sounding the same warning.

The Freelancers looked at each other, dumbstruck at the situation. What the hell was going on?

Then Alabama looked up.

"Oh, shit!" he yelled, throwing himself back against the sides of the jeep, making everyone else turn their heads up to what he had seen. The Freelancers stared, knowing they didn't have enough time to react. Iowa sighed, putting his head against his hand.

The falling object in the sky slammed directly into the bonnet of the Warthog, denting it heavily and flipping it over with sheer force. The jeep rolled across the ground, flinging the occupants out as it did, before finally settling on four wheels again.

Arkansas lay still, his head spinning, unsure as to whether he had survived or not. What the hell _was_ that? He slowly opened his eyes, his vision blurred and warped, to see a huge dust cloud where the thing had landed after it had capsized their jeep. His head hurt and he shut his eyes again, before slipping away from consciousness.

A few metres away, Alabama dragged himself to his feet, staring at the chaos all around him. Arkansas was lying perfectly still, which was worrying, not far from him. Iowa had taken off his helmet, his head bleeding heavily, seemingly unable to get up off his back, and York was nowhere to be seen. Alabama staggered for a moment, still shaken by the crash, and then went over to help Iowa. As he approached, though, Iowa spat out a mouthful of blood and shook his head.

"Go see if Ark's alright...I'm fine," he insisted, before rolling painfully onto his front and attempting to get up, destroying what little dignity he had left. Alabama sighed, but did as asked, and jogged over to Arkansas, getting Eta to check his vitals.

"He's dazed and has quite a few bruises, as well as what appears to be a fractured arm, but he'll be fine. He'll probably wake in a few minutes. Help him up," the A.I. replied, his pink glow highlighting Alabama's armour. The Freelancer did as instructed, propping Arkansas up against a rock next to Iowa. As Eta had predicted, he came around quickly.

"God damn it..." he muttered, his head lolling forward, "I'm going to feel this tomorrow..."

A noise made them all jump, and they glanced at the Warthog, to see York climb out slowly, staggering as he did. Before they could ask how he'd managed to stay in the jeep, however, the object from the sky sat up, clutching their head. An A.I. appeared by the mysterious Spartan, silver in colour, with long hair and a big smile, as if smashing into a military vehicle and causing it to somersault into the air was nothing.

"Oh, hi!" she said.

* * *

"So, let me get this straight: you managed to hide from Command in their own base, resist the actual A.I. removal by rigging the equipment with low-key explosives, before running away and stealing a Hornet right from under their noses?" Iowa asked Mississippi's A.I., stunned. The silver hologram nodded, smiling shyly and smoothing out her knee-length dress, fixing the bow on the front. "Why didn't they just remove you straight away? Why leave you unattended so you could rig everything up in the first place?"

"Well, they were curious as to why we had remained behind in the first place. All the Spartans that stayed behind were studied and experimented on before being taken for the removal. I simply deactivated our cameras so Missi could sneak down to the implantation facility and do what we do best. After the equipment malfunctioned, we slipped away in the confusion, taking a Hornet for ourselves. Isn't that right, Missi?"

Mississippi paused, and then nodded slowly, saying nothing. Alabama looked at the khaki Freelancer.

"She doesn't speak much, does she?" he said to the A.I., nodding at Mississippi. The A.I. smiled merrily.

"No, Mississippi doesn't. By the way, my name is Zeta. Call Mississippi 'Missi'. _She_ absolutely _loves_ it."

_I hate you, Zay. You know that, right?_ Mississippi thought to Zeta, the nickname the Freelancer despised now out in the open. However, Mississippi couldn't be bothered correcting the other Spartans. The Freelancers could say worse things about the code name.

"So, where are you all off to?" Zeta continued cheerfully, ignoring her disgruntled host.

"We were planning to head to the city to see if we could find a place of work and protection from Command," Arkansas said, wincing at the pain coming from his broken arm.

"Oh, so were we! Perhaps we should come with you? Our Hornet crashed somewhere to the east, and is now completely inoperable."

Arkansas shrugged, and then wished he hadn't as a sharp pang shot through his arm.

"Sure, why not? Bigger group means better defence."

Alabama helped Arkansas to his feet, while Iowa waved away Mississippi's attempts to assist him. Iowa didn't want the new girl thinking he couldn't handle himself. Mississippi stared for a moment, and then shook their head, before walking over to the Warthog and waiting for the others to catch up. Delta and York stared at Mississippi for a moment. Then York snorted with laughter, casting a glance at the rest of the group slowly making their way over.

"Idiots," he said, still sniggering to himself, and then nodded at Mississippi, smirking behind his visor. Mississippi nodded back curtly, but said nothing. Zeta, however, appeared over her host's shoulder, smiling sweetly.

"Now, let's not cause any unnecessary embarrassment, shall we?" she said, tilting her head playfully to the side, toying with her hair, twirling it around her index finger. York snorted.

"_I'm_ not going to say anything. It amuses me to watch these morons as is. This'll simply provide extra entertainment."

Zeta giggled, and then disappeared as the other Freelancers finally caught up.

"Ladies first, Missi," Alabama said, motioning for the khaki Spartan to get in. Mississippi said nothing, but climbed in regardless. Alabama sighed. Missi was kind of bitchy; did she not know any manners?

"Thank you, Alabama," Zeta said, appearing briefly and grinning at him as the other Freelancers got in the vehicle.

Alabama sighed and got into the driver's seat, while York took the turret, checking to see if it still worked. The green Spartan gunned up the Warthog.

At least her A.I. was nice.

* * *

"Duck, El!"

El threw herself to the floor, and watched with amazement as Massachusetts ran forward, gun raised like a bat, before swinging out and hitting the grenade that had been thrown at El's head with all her might. The explosive sailed through the air, spinning gracefully, before landing straight in the enemy barracks. It detonated, and various objects were blasted up, splintered wood and shards of metal raining down from above onto the Wolves. El got up onto her feet shakily, staring at Massachusetts with wide eyes behind her goggles. She let out a few ragged breaths, her heart hammering wildly against her chest, and then jumped when the Spartan shouted at her.

"_Move_, El! Don't make yourself an easy target!"

"Al-alright!" El stammered nervously, and sprinted for cover as the Hawks regrouped, opening fire at her. They only just missed, and El could feel the bullets ricocheting off the concrete ground behind her with loud pinging noises. Suddenly, one of her comrades was knocked off his feet, riddled with wounds. El couldn't react fast enough, and tripped straight over his lifeless body, going flying and landing heavily on the floor. Quickly, she rolled onto her back, pistol drawn and shot every enemy she could see, fearing for her life. The Hawks ducked away momentarily, only a few of them injured by El's attempts, and then raised their own weapons.

_Shit_, El thought, her pistol now empty. Then a hand clamped down on her shoulder, dragging her back as the adversary opened fire, the bullets bouncing harmlessly off the floor. El looked up to see Massachusetts standing over her, looking through the scope of her battle rifle and picking off the Hawks with short, controlled bursts.

Then there was silence.

Massachusetts lowered her rifle, before looking down at El.

"I think you need to work on your aim," she said playfully, offering a hand to help her up. El took it, was quickly hoisted to her feet. Massachusetts pressed another pistol in her hand, taking away the empty one and tossing it onto the floor.

"Just in case," the Freelancer said, nodding. El smiled and put it in her holster, and then followed the Spartan when she signalled to everyone that they were moving on. Massachusetts knelt down by the dead Wolf.

"Sig, check him," she said, and Sigma appeared, casting a purple glow on the surroundings. Her colour tinted blue slight for a few seconds, and then she shook her head at her host.

"Sorry, Massa. He's gone."

Massachusetts sighed heavily, and then looked at gang behind her.

"No matter what happens in there," she said, pointing to the tunnels, and then pointing at the dead gang member, "we come back for him, OK?"

The rest of the group murmured in agreement, and Massachusetts nodded, before standing up.

"Move out."

* * *

The group moved through the dark, damp tunnels like shadows, keeping alert to their surroundings. The Wolves padded quietly along the abandoned tracks, their shoes making slight scuffling noise on the concrete, whilst Massachusetts metal boots made heavier clumps. The soles had soft material on them to deaden the sound of the metal, making stealth easier, but it didn't stop the sheer weight of the Spartan's footsteps either.

Suddenly Massachusetts stopped, and then ducked away into the darkness. The group copied her immediately, and a few seconds later, an alarmed patrol ran past, shouting loudly amongst themselves.

Massachusetts shook her head.

Amateurs.

Once the threat was at a safe distance, the Freelancer led the Wolves forward again, having Sigma constantly scan the area.

"One more patrol to take out and you'll have this place, Massa," Sigma said inside her mind.

"Damn right we will," Massachusetts whispered back.

* * *

"Sarah?"

Sarah opened her eyes slowly, looking up at her fiancé, the lights of the city illuminating his haggard and pale face. He smiled gently at her, his eyes filled with adoration, and he raised a trembling hand, stroking her soft cheeks.

"I love you, Sarah."

Sarah leant forward, pressing her lips against his. He responded, savouring the moment, caressing her smooth and slightly ruffled hair. Sarah felt like she was in heaven. It had been bliss since her love had come home from the army, even if he was on the run. She could hide him here, though. The fact that he had an A.I. in his head made her uneasy, however, like another person was watching their intimate moments, spying on them.

As the kiss progressed, Sarah began to feel uncomfortable. Was the program watching them now as they kissed? Reluctantly, she tried to pull away, but Maine, as he sometimes asked to be called, put a hand to the back of her head, pushing her closer to him. She felt his mouth pressed hard against hers, her own teeth digging into her lips as he dragged her in. Her mouth stung as her lips cut, the metallic taste of blood sickening on her tongue, and she struggled as Maine became more forceful. Finally, she managed to elbow him in the stomach, and pushed him away as he groaned. She sat up in the bed, a trickle of red dripping from her mouth, staring at him.

"What the hell-?" she began, but was cut off as Maine let out a deep snarl, before spinning around with terrifying speed, hitting her hard across the face with the back of his hand, knocking her straight off the bed.

"Don't you dare hit me!" he screamed, his eyes blank, as if he wasn't there. His voice was strange, like a woman was talking with him, and a flickering orange image was hovering just above his shoulder. "Don't you fucking hit me, you _bitch_!"

Sarah scrambled backwards, pushing herself against the wall in fear. When Maine suddenly threw himself at her, she tried to move out of the way, but wasn't fast enough. He grabbed her by the hair and lifted her clean off the floor, before throwing her across the room so that she slammed into the door. The wood cracked and splintered upon impact, and Sarah felt the broken pieces of the door against her back, piercing the skin and drawing blood, red droplets staining her pink nightdress. She let out a shuddering gasp, her heart hammering wildly against her chest, her whole body shaking violently as she realised she was about to die.

Maine wrapped his fingers tightly around her slender throat, and then lifted her up onto her feet, before shaking her by the neck like a rag doll. Then he raised a fist.

"Never," he bellowed, punching her in the face and letting go of her throat at the same time so that she staggered back into a wall, hitting her head. He strode over to her.

"Hit." Another punch, this time to the stomach, causing Sarah to double over, winded, agony flooding from the point of impact and spreading all over her body.

"Me." He hit the back of her head, sending her sprawling onto the floor.

"Again!" Maine kicked her as he bellowed, and then knelt down beside her, taking hold of her hair and dragging her to the kitchen. He laid her stomach down on the floor, and then sat on her back, pinning her there.

"Do. You. Understand?" he screamed, smashing her face into the wooden floor with each word.

Sarah could only sob, the pain in her battered body almost unbearable. Her lack of an answer seemed to only infuriate Maine further. He yanked her head back, before bringing his face right up to hers.

"Answer me," he hissed. "Do you understand?"

"Y-yes! Yes!" Sarah wailed, stammering, absolutely petrified. Satisfied, Maine let her go and stood up. As soon as she felt his grip loosen, she crawled frantically over to the kitchen worktops, leaning against them, her hands clutched so tightly at their edges that her knuckles went white. Clumps of her hair were missing, and that which remained was matted with blood. Bruised and cuts covered every inch of exposed skin, and blood flowed freely from her now crooked nose. Her eyes were deep purple, and her nightdress was ripped and ruined.

However, none of this compared to what happened next.

Maine knelt down, looking at her, his expression blank, his bare chest and jogging bottoms splattered with her blood. Then his lips twitched, before pulling back into a smile. The orange figure over his shoulder briefly showed a face, and did exactly the same.

The creature in front of her, which had enjoyed brutally beating her, was not her fiancé.

It was the A.I.

The smile dropped from Maine's face, and his eyes rolled back into his head as his body slumped, collapsing onto the kitchen floor. The orange figure had disappeared from over his shoulder. Sarah didn't move.

Was he dead?

Suddenly Maine groaned, sitting up, and she scrunched her body into a ball, terrified. Maine looked up at her, hearing her move, and stared, his jaw dropping.

"Oh my God, Sarah!" he whispered, sounding horrified. "What happened? Why are we here? Did someone attack us?"

He leant forward to touch her, but froze when he heard her sharp intake of breath, and watched as she shied away from him.

"...Sarah?" he asked cautiously, not understanding why she was looking at him with eyes full of fear. He followed her line of sight, looking down at himself.

Then he saw the blood.

_

* * *

_

Author's Notes: Mississippi was a character created by Silent Memento.

_I wasn't sure how to introduce Mississippi into the story...but then I had the following conversation with my friends:_

_**Me: **_**Mississippi is the serious one.**

_**Mem:**_** But you didn't show Mississippi. DDDD8**

_**Me:**_** I don't just want to drop Mississippi in, all "HAI."**

**:)**

_**Jacob: **_**YOU SHOULD TOTALLY DO THAT.**

**Somehow.**

_And that is the reason Mississippi falls from the sky._

_Leilah._


	6. Bitches for Sale

**Bitches for Sale**

Sarah sat perfectly still at the dining table, her hands clasped tightly around a stone cold cup of coffee. Her expression was non-existent, and she merely stared blankly at the wall, empty inside. A painting of a boat floating gently on glass-like water hung directly opposite her on the orange kitchen wall. She looked fixatedly at it, not wanting to see her bloodstains that were smeared across the bottom of the wall, brown-red in stubborn patches on her pale carpet. What had happened the previous night still hadn't sunk in, and she felt numb, the bruising all over her a dull throb, massing to a single great and terrible ache in her heart. That hadn't been Robert who had attacked her, so why was she so scared of him?

_Because he can't defend himself from that thing in his head_.

The realisation hit her hard, much more viciously than anything the A.I. had done to her last night, and her hands flew to her mouth in despair. The coffee cup fell over with a clatter, the untouched, dark liquid rushing out, rolling along the wood with speed, before settling as a puddle, slowly soaking into the wood. Sarah didn't even notice. She had caused the A.I. in his head to take over. She had elbowed him in the stomach for no good reason. Guilt rose up from her stomach, spreading like a deadly poison through her body, causing her to shake violently. Sarah had hurt him greatly by provoking the A.I., and he would have to live with himself knowing he had attacked her. This was all her fault. Sarah clutched at her face, finally comprehending the situation she..._they_ were in.

She couldn't leave Robert. She loved him too much, even if he was a risk to both of them. What would he do on his own? That damn A.I. would kill him from the inside. It not only broke her to know that he could do nothing to control himself, but that he was aware of 'his' actions at the same time. Whatever she felt physically, it would be a thousand times worse for him.

Tears cascaded from her black eyes, the salt stinging the cuts along her face, splinters from the wooden door still embedded in her skin. Sarah wept, letting her soul pour out as pure, raw emotion. She cried for her pain. She cried for all the plans she set out for her and Robert that had been destroyed. She cried for the hopelessness of the situation. She even cried for herself. But most of all, she cried in fear.

Fear for Robert.

She heard footsteps from down the corridor, getting louder as they approached her flat, and she sat straight-backed, perfectly still once more, her hand spread out on the table so that they touched the spilt coffee. The door opened, and Maine walked in.

He was tired...so very tired. He sighed and unbuttoned his coat, hanging it on a peg and then leaning onto the wall for support, breathing deeply. Omicron had put immense pressure on him while he had been out. Not so it could take over him; no, simply toying with him. Weakening him, testing him – all for its own entertainment. Maine had tried to get all the shopping done, because he wanted to save Sarah from doing it later before they ran out of food, and then staggered to the nearest transport, just about making it. Once in the transportation tunnel, Omicron backed off, chuckling cruelly to itself. Now it was simply waiting, biding its time.

After the attack on Sarah, he had simply sat against the wall, speechless. He remained that way for some time, until Sarah had warily gotten up, and then walked almost trancelike to the bed, before getting into it. He wasn't sure if she had actually slept, but he hoped so. He, however, had stayed awake the entire night by the wall, and at the crack of dawn had gotten in the shower and scrubbed his skin red-raw in an attempt to get Sarah's blood off.

When he had returned to the kitchen, Sarah was sat there, touching her nose gingerly.

"It's broken," Maine had offered, wincing when she jumped edgily at the sound of his voice. "I can put it back into place for you."

It had taken much persuasion on Maine's part, but eventually Sarah allowed him to touch her, and he cracked her nose back so it was no longer crooked. It hurt her, obviously, and he felt terrible for it.

Maine walked into the kitchen to see Sarah sat exactly where she had been a few hours ago, the cup of coffee he had given her knocked over on the table. He saw she had been crying, and turned away, unable to look at her. Miraculously, only her nose had been broken, and the rest of her injuries were just cuts and bruises...but Maine knew the reason why. Omicron hadn't wanted to damage its new toy. It was getting tired of Maine, now that it completely dominated him, and Sarah was a fresh, new game. It would put pressure on her, make life unbearable, and then finally, when she was right on the edge and could bear no more, it would break her.

Maine was determined to stop Omicron.

Somehow.

What could he do, though? If he tried to leave, Omicron would just take over and force him back. Suicide was an option, but he doubted Omicron would allow it. It could hear his thoughts after all.

"Robert?"

Sarah's small voice cut through the air like a knife, and Maine flinched, his hand slipping off the tin he was putting in the cupboard. It dropped and landed with a loud thunk, denting the kitchen top, before rolling off and tumbling to the floor. Maine ignored it and simply stared at Sarah.

"Y-yes?" He hadn't expected her to talk to him for quite some time, if at all.

"Can I...speak to your A.I., please?"

Maine paused, his heart thumping hard against his chest. Speak with Omicron? Before he had a chance to reply, however, it appeared over his shoulder in an orange haze, and his legs moved automatically, taking him over to Sarah. She stood up timidly, looking at the floor. Omicron released its hold on him, and hovered harmlessly over his shoulder, staring with interest at his fiancé.

"Yes?" The low, feminine voice rung out clearly and Maine shivered. The things that voice has whispered to him in the night...when he was alone.... He shook his head, not wanting to give Omicron ammunition later.

"I...just wanted to apologise for hitting you like that," she mumbled, her lips trembling as she spoke. Omicron paused, slightly amused by this. It would never have dreamed up such a reaction from the girl...it was used to despair, anger, betrayal, and hatred...but remorse?

How delicious this new emotion was; almost as much as hope.

"You are forgiven," Omicron said, waiting for it. Sarah's mouth broke into a grateful, hopeful smile, and a jolt of thrill ran through the A.I.

False hope; it was such a beautiful thing.

Omicron jumped away from Maine's wristwatch, which had a source chip in it, landing back in the original source chip in his armour. Maine staggered, putting his hand on the wall as his head suddenly cleared. He put a hand to his head and blinked.

"It's...gone."

"What?" Sarah asked, confused.

"Omicron...it's gone from my mind."

"Are you sure?"

Maine nodded, and Sarah sobbed, stumbling towards him and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. Maine held her as tightly as he dared, not wanting to put pressure on her bruises. He stroked her hair softly, relief flooding through him. Omicron would never leave him, for fear of losing him. Sarah's words must have done something. He led her to the bathroom, filling the white bath up with steaming water, adding all sorts of perfume stuff to it to make it as appealing as possible.

"Relax in this for a while," he said, turning away as she got undressed. "I'll make some breakfast."

As he put his hand on the door, however, Sarah reached out and caught his fingers, tugging on them slightly. He glanced behind at her.

"Don't leave me on my own…" she murmured, clutching at him.

"You want me to watch you wash?" Maine asked. Sarah shook her head, confusing him further.

"Get in with me."

Maine blinked, bewildered for a moment.

"Alright," he said finally, a slight grin on his face.

In the other room, the A.I. listened to their pathetic conversation with some amusement.

_He doesn't realise I'm in his armour..._ Omicron thought to itself.

_Let them think everything is alright...the higher they rise, the harder they fall._

Omicron lived for the fall.

* * *

"Did you get rid of them?"

The woman, sat in old, badly fitted clothes, which she had bought cheap from a charity shop a month ago, looked up at the approaching man. He nodded to her, and then sat down next to her, plucking at his own dirty garments, making himself comfortable, before putting his arm around her and squeezing her against her side. She smiled, shivering slightly at the cold, and huddled up to him.

"What are we going to do, Louis?"

Louis looked down at Lydia, admiring her face despite the grime all over it, and sighed.

"I...got hold of some money."

"How?"

"The weapons...I sold them to a local crime gang. They recently took over the black market tunnels and had some spare cash."

"You _sold_ them?" Lydia sat up, and Louis loosened his arm, letting it drop to the floor. "You_ sold_ them to criminals?"

"Why are you so bothered? It'll last us a while, Liddy! You know well as I do that I wouldn't have done it if Command hadn't put tabs and trackers on our weapons. If we were caught using them we would've be shot on sight! The least we can do is get money out of it instead of letting them find them later for free."

Lydia's argument caught in her throat, and she found herself sighing heavily instead, leaning her chin against her knees.

"If anyone asks, we dumped them," Louis continued. Lydia scowled.

"Like I'm going to tell someone I sold weapons to gangsters."

Louis offered his arms to her again, and despite her grumbling, she nestled herself next to him once more. They stared at the small, dying fire in front of them, watching sadly, knowing this would probably be the extent of their life from now on. Their armour was stored in what they hoped was a secure place, so less attention would be drawn to them as they walked about. Nothing was safe in the city, however, and the two Freelancers could only hope that it would go unnoticed by thieves. Louis watched as the fire finally flickered out, plunging them into darkness underneath the old, crumbling bridge. Parts of the river that ran through the city had long since dried up, but the bridges remained. So did the damp, and the chill of it washed over Louis as if the river was still there.

He glanced down at Lydia, who had already quickly fallen asleep, and smiled. She was so pretty and peaceful. He stroked her arms with his hands, his fingers tracing thoughtless shapes across her skin, and winced at the goose bumps. The air was freezing, and they had nothing left to make a new fire. Louis eased her gently away from him, being careful not to wake her, and then took his coat off, wrapping it around her like a blanket. Lydia stirred, but nothing else, and Louis shivered as he pulled her close to him again, putting his arms around her, trying his best to keep her warm.

He would stay awake that night, the air too cold to entice sleep, keeping a careful watch on the stretch of endless riverbed before them, all the while content with the woman beside him.

* * *

"How much did you pay for these guns again?" Massachusetts asked, staring at them.

The gang member told her, a proud look on his face. Massachusetts groaned.

"God damn it, Jacob! Why the hell did you buy shit without running a background check first? Dumbass!"

The red-headed, ex Simulation soldier winced at her words and looked to the ground, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Aw, come on, stop looking like that. Just don't do it again. Leave these with me; I'll sort them out."

Jacob nodded, and then hurried away out of her office. Massachusetts sighed, standing up and scooping the guns under her arms. She'd have to see Anton about this. She tapped to the radio channel on her headset which connected directly with Anton's desk.

"Hey, Ant, we have a serious problem."

"Oh? What sort of problem?" His faintly Russian accent rolled through her earpiece.

"I think it's best if I explain it in person. Are you busy?"

"No, not at all. Head on over."

Massachusetts cut the connection, and then swiftly kicked her office door, nearly breaking it. She couldn't be bothered putting the guns down and using her hand, and anyway, she preferred the direct method of doing things.

She quickly walked down the corridor, ignoring the glances the gang gave her. Since they had taken over the black market source tunnel, business had been good. Anton had praised her for her good work, and put her in charge of all weapons related jobs. Massachusetts loved it, and often spent hours sorting gun shipments, training, and the best deal on guns. Now one of the gang had run in claiming to have spent a huge chunk of the budget on 'real Freelancer guns'. Turned out the guns had trackers and tags installed on them. This was not good for Massachusetts.

"One of your guys bought these bitches," she said as she walked into Anton's office, dumping the guns heavily on the desk. He picked up a nearby pistol, inspecting it carefully.

"I see nothing wrong with them. They're good guns."

"They have trackers on them. Clearly someone thought the owner of the gun was going to do a runner, and so installed them on last minute. Now Command has a pinpoint of the weapons, and will dispatch their troops to collect them. All good if it was just you guys; they'd probably pay to keep you quiet...but with me here..."

"…the guns will lead them straight to you," Anton finished from her, realising what she was getting at. Massachusetts nodded.

"Exactly."

"So what are you suggesting? You want me to get rid of them? Dump them in the streets?" Anton put the gun back on the desk, placing his fingers together and looking over them at her.

"No. They were costly. I was thinking we sell them at one of the other black market hotspots; let someone else take the fall while we get paid for it."

Anton smiled darkly.

"Great minds think alike."

* * *

Derrick lay back against the pillows, breathless, whilst she snuggled up to his bare chest, the duvet folding on her toned curves. Slowly she slid her hand up his body, savouring the touch of his smooth, bare skin against the palm of her hand, digging her nails in slightly so that soft, red lines were left behind. He grinned down at her. She knew exactly how to get him excited, and he felt a thrill stir in him as he leant forward, kissing her passionately. She impatiently brushed her thick, blonde hair back behind her ears, eager to carry on where they had left off, but he put a hand to her shoulder and gently moved her away. She looked back him, confused, and then caught his playful smile.

He was teasing her.

"I can wait," she said, folding her arms and sitting up, the sheets falling away and revealing her naked form. His eyes trailed down past the neckline, admiring her, before snapping his gaze back up at her shapely face.

"You're flushed. Looks like you need a drink." Derrick slid his legs out of the bed and stood up, grabbing a dressing gown and pulling it on, twisting the ties into a loose knot, before walking out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He went to the fridge, taking a bottle of red wine from its chilled depths, and pouring the blood red liquid into two slender wine glasses. Glancing at the closed bedroom door, his stomach flipped slightly, and he moved to his coat, which was draped carelessly over a chair alongside his shirt and trousers. Derrick took a small, brown glass bottle from the pocket, unscrewing the lid and putting a few drops in one of the glasses. He quickly put the bottle back in its hiding place, and then picked up the glasses, making sure he knew which one was spiked, before returning to his waiting lady. Passing her the drink, Derrick watched as the ruby coloured wine passed over her beautiful lips, a stab of self-hatred coursing through him as she lowered the glass and smiled seductively over the rim. She placed it on the bedside table as he drained his own in one go. The second the glass left his hand, she was upon him, undoing his gown with trembling fingers, her eyes darting about wildly.

Suddenly her eyelids drooped, and she slowly slumped on top of him, motionless, her breathing heavy. Sighing, he sat up, laying her gently on the bed and covering her up with the sheets, before planting a sorrowful kiss on her forehead. He returned to the kitchen, getting dressed, and then moving to the gas supply, quickly loosening one of the valves so that deadly carbon monoxide hissed from it. Derrick glanced over at the unconscious form in the room, and put his head against the wall. Was a way to infiltrate a high security bank really worth this? He hadn't expected to fall for her.

A sharp pain appeared in his head, and all doubts dissolved.

Yes.

It was worth it.

At least it would be quick and painless.

He slipped his coat on, checking the bottle was securely there. The remnants of it would disappear from the drink in time, and he had already picked up his glass and washed it out. He quickly moved to the metal collection which held his goal, carefully removing the precious item inside and storing it in a special container. A strange urge came over him, and Derrick removed a small headpiece from a pocket on the inside of his coat, which he had never noticed before. He slipped it onto his ear automatically, as if some unseen force was ordering him to do so, and then, on a panel on the back of his watch that he had never noticed before, typed a code in, which, up until now, he had not known. It was like a passing thought that Derrick found unable to resist. There was a click, and a speaker sounded on the other end. They spoke a set of weird words, almost like code words, and Derrick suddenly found himself responding as if he knew what he was actually talking about. The speaker confirmed, and then sent a file over. Derrick shuddered, a tight pain on his head, and then everything became clear again.

Everything made sense.

He looked around at the flat he was in, and smiled at the thought of the police searching for forensics. It didn't matter if they found his DNA.

He didn't exist.

* * *

_Author's notes: ..._

_Jacob = :K_


	7. Oh My God, You Killed Coffee!

**Oh My God, You Killed Coffee!**

Alpha Three clutched the cup of coffee between his hands, his nails digging slightly into the Styrofoam exterior. The warm ebb through the cup to his hands was slowly dying away, for he had been sat with it for over half an hour, but he couldn't be bothered moving. He stared at his unwritten report on the flat screen computer monitor, the blank white page the only source of light in the dark resource room. The computer itself, a high-powered piece of equipment, hummed monotonously, a low note that stretched out into the black.

Alpha Three's eyes were heavy and tired, and he was tempted to rub them. That would mean letting go of his coffee, however.

He couldn't do that.

He glanced back at his 'report', the text cursor blinking repeatedly at him, almost as if it was mocking him to write the damn thing.

_Write me,_ said a little voice. Alpha Three sighed. He often had arguments with the blinking cursor – almost as much as he did the floating paperclip with the oversized eyes. He was probably borderline schizophrenic or something, but at least it provided some form of company, however unwanted it may be.

_Blink._

_Blink._

_Blink._

_Write me._

Alpha Three glared at the blinking cursor.

"I don't want to write you," he replied, his voice sounding out of place in the eerie silence. "If I do, I'll have to let go of my coffee cup. I don't want to do that."

_Who cares about the coffee cup?_

_Write me._

"No."

_The coffee cup is a figment of your imagination. He doesn't exist. You've been sat with that hogging bastard for too long now. Tell him he has to let everyone else have a turn._

_Even if he doesn't exist._

"He does exist. I'm _holding_ him."

_No he doesn't. You just don't want to admit it, because you'll finally realise you've lost your mind._

"I haven't lost my mind."

…_you do know what you're talking to, right?_

"Good point."

Alpha Three looked down at the cup of coffee.

"Sorry," he said, shrugging at the coffee, "but he's right."

The coffee said nothing.

Alpha Three picked up the cup and dropped it in the bin, watching as cold coffee spilt all down the metal sides of the box.

_Now look what've done. You killed him. I only told you to pay attention to someone else, because the coffee didn't exist. I didn't say you had to murder him in cold…blood._

_Say sorry to the coffee._

"Sorry, coffee."

_Now shut up and write your damn report._

* * *

"So, what's your speciality, my dear?"

Agent Mississippi shifted in their seat, deciding to let their A.I. explain it all. Zeta flickered into view and smiled merrily at the employer.

"Our specialities are the creation of explosives, namely grenades, mines, and homemade varieties, like pipe bombs and Molotov cocktails. We can also use Covenant explosives with the same standard we do human ones. We can disarm all kinds of mines, explosives traps, and the like, of professional quality. One could say we are 'top of the field'. Finally, my host have almost perfect aim with rocket launchers and other scoped weapons, like Spartan lasers and battle rifles."

Zeta glanced at Mississippi.

"Never could master the sniper rifle, though, for some reason," she said, her expression changing to one of mild puzzlement and interest. The employer looked at Mississippi for a moment.

"Do you always allow your A.I. to speak for you, miss…?"

Mississippi sighed deeply.

"It's easier if I just speak," Zeta offered. The employer shook his head…but then shrugged and smiled.

"This is viewed as a legal business," the employer continued, a slight smile on his face. "Of course, it's not, and I'm willing to hire you and your other Freelancer friends as my bodyguards and…assistants. However, I need to know, do you have any skills that could be considered usefully to the nature of my empire?"

Zeta thought for a moment.

"Missi is a skilled torturer," she said finally, grimacing. "We were taught by Command on how to break a captured enemy as quickly and efficiently as possible. I will admit, though, neither of us like doing it…but we are willing to teach."

"So say I brought you an enemy for…'interrogation', how would you deal with them?"

Zeta told him, and watched as he winced and shuddered at her words.

"You're hired," he said finally, looking ill.

* * *

Alpha Two burst through the door into the resource room. She had heard Alpha Three had returned from his mission, and guessed he would be in here, talking to his computer screen. She quickly flicked the lights on, filling the room with dazzle, and she heard Alpha Three yell out in surprise. Smiling to herself, Alpha Two walked across to the source of the noise and peered around a desk, laughing as Alpha Three rubbed his eyes frantically.

"Will you _warn_ me when you're going to do that?" he snapped, moving his hands away and revealing the large dark circles around his sockets, a contrast to his pale skin. He looked terribly sick, but then, so did Alpha Two. She glanced at the computer, eyeing his report, and then sighed.

"_Writemeblinkblinkblinkwriteme_idontwanttowriteyouifidoillhavetoletgoofmycoffeecupidontwanttodothat_whocaresaboutthecoffeecupwriteme_no_thecoffeecupisafigment of your imagination…"_

She had often seen Alpha Three write and talk to himself, abandoning all sense…and punctuation. However, it was getting more frequent with each mission. She had suggested that maybe their bosses lay off the drugs, but they had told her to 'know her place'. She belonged to them now; she had handed the right of her life over to them, and had no say in any matter regarding well-being.

The drugs issued to the Alpha Squad were thought not to have side-effects. This was disproved when the pigmentation in their hair was destroyed, turning it stark white. While Alpha Two quite liked it, as it was unusual, the other two Alpha soldiers dyed theirs to hide it. Alpha Three noticed Alpha Two was looking at the glimpse into his mind. His pale cheeks flushed slightly, and he quickly deleted the words, ashamed. Alpha Two looked away, not wanting to embarrass him further, and waited for the clicks of the keys to stop.

"So…I heard the mission was a success," Alpha Two said awkwardly. Alpha Three gave her a grateful look for the subject change.

"Successful…in theory," he replied, hesitating slightly. Alpha Two cocked her head to the side.

"Oh?" she said, curious to know more. Alpha Three shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"The mission itself went without a hitch…but there were certain…_emotional_ complications with Derrick."

"Derrick?"

"Yeah, Derrick."

"Oh_, Derrick_. I see what you mean. So what were the emotional complications?"

Alpha Three told Alpha Two everything he had found out about Derrick's actions, from the cold indifference that had grown to adoration and love, to the murder for reasons so _insignificant_. Ending her beautiful life for a bank robbery? Derrick may have had his orders, orders that could not be ignored under any circumstance, but Alpha Three knew had it been _him_ that night and not Derrick, she would still be alive.

Alpha Three fell silent, not voicing the last part of his thoughts, and his friend sat opposite him, confused, but trying to be comforting regardless.

"That was just one mission; you'll never come into contact with Derrick again," Alpha Two said soothingly. Alpha Three shook his head miserably.

"It's not that I'm bothered about," he said quietly, his tired eyes dull and blank. Realisation hit Alpha Two like a hammer, and she groaned softly.

"…you felt something for her, too, right?" she asked, her heart sinking. Alpha Three nodded slightly, and his friend sighed and put her arm around him, hugging him close. Silence hung in the air for an age, both unsure as to what could be said.

Suddenly the radio built into Alpha Two's special lightweight armour crackled.

"_Alpha Two, this is base; please respond. You are needed at the reprogramming facility for implantation of your next mission."_

Alpha Two scowled deeply, still not moving her head away from Alpha Three's shoulder.

"_Alpha Two, this is base; please respond. Your presence is urgently required."_

"You should go before they get annoyed," Alpha Three said sadly, as he moved away from his friend's embrace. Alpha Two unhooked her arm from around him and sighed deeply.

"_Alpha Two, you are ordered to respond immediatel-"_

"Alpha Two, responding to base call. On my way to the facility now. Alpha Two out."

Alpha Two irritably turned her radio off, glaring at nobody in particular. Alpha Three nodded at her.

"Good luck."

* * *

"How did it go?" Alabama asked as Mississippi exited the office. Zeta shrugged.

"He just asked us our skills and then hired us. It wasn't that hard, really."

Alabama let out a sigh of relief.

"I always get nervous with interviews," he replied, shuddering and then shaking his head.

"Why?"

"I...don't know. Give me deadly situations, bullets, guns, and Command any day of the week...just not interviews."

"Agent Alabama, please enter Mr. Kawashima's office," a voice crackled over the intercom. Alabama gulped and shakily stood up, while Zeta smiled warmly at him. He walked across the waiting room and entered the office, before sitting down in a reinforced metal chair, which was bent slightly at the weight of the previous Spartan who had been sat on it. He wondered if it would collapse on him half way through the interview.

The questions came quickly and briefly; what was he good at? Did he have qualms about certain jobs? Any specialities?

"Um...I'm...fast," Alabama replied, flushing behind his helmet as the interviewer's eyebrows rose in amusement. "And...I'm good with the shotgun."

There was a slight pause. Alabama coughed and attempted to scrape together some confidence.

"I can outrun most others and have good people skills...just...not in interviews."

"I can see," the interviewer replied, smiling kindly at the Freelancer.

"I'm also a cryptographer," Alabama added, aware the interview was about to crash into the ground.

"Cryptographer?"

"Uh, yeah. I can figure out codes with ease. I'm not a 'hacker'; I just find the unscrambling of information and the cracking of codes. So an encrypted message I could unscramble if I had the correct equipment and adequate time."

The interviewer nodded.

"You're hired."

* * *

Ashley Romano stood on top of an old tower building, the wind ruffling her hair behind her shoulder, trails of it draping across the sunglasses settled on her nose. She flicked them back deftly, and then moved her head down to look at the city below. Cars were infrequent in this part of the city, yet a few were visible from this great height, small little boxes of grey, black, and silver moving swiftly through the grimy catacombs of the streets.

Her black body suit blended nicely with the smog and pollution that choked the peaks of skyscrapers and settled below like a descending swarm on inhabitants of the festering pit that was the Old City. Ashley loved the Old City, for it was a place crime could run unchecked and free, unlike the more modern parts in the East. The Romano family, _her_ family, were of Italian origin, making their way over to America centuries ago. Ashley didn't even look Italian, the fiery blood in her veins watered down by generation after generation of American marriage, but her heart and her temper told a different story. Her family still ran the Old City, the figureheads of what every gangster aspired to be. Their rivals were the Kawashima family, Japanese scum who moved in on their territory a few years back.

Ashley's history was so tragic; one would almost think it was made up. Her mother, Lisa, ran away with a rival gang member when she was only sixteen, becoming pregnant with Ashley a year later. The Romano family had done everything to get Lisa back, even making an attempt on Ashley's father, Andrew, before she was even born. It had failed, but Lisa died in childbirth, leaving Andrew to raise her. Then, eighteen years later, he was murdered by the Kawashima family.

Now, at twenty-six years of age, Ashley was trying to make the Romano family realise who she was. The eight years since she was orphaned were a blur, a period of her life she either didn't want to remember or couldn't. All she knew is one day she had walked up to someone and shot them down in the middle of the street, before scampering up into an abandoned building, gang members hot on her tail. The rest was blank.

In fact, whole sections of her life were missing. It was strange, to say the least, and it disconcerted her greatly. However, she ignored her patchy memory, even if it _was_ disturbing, too busy trying to be accepted by her family. There was no way one could get inside without permission, even for someone as skilled as herself, so for the last few years, she had written letter after letter between missions, detailing her life, who her parents were, and requesting..._begging_ for a meeting with the head of the Romano family. She had not received a single reply, but this didn't dent her determination. She knew who she was, without a doubt, and eventually everyone else would, too, welcoming her into the Romano household with open arms.

_Eventually._

* * *

"So, Agent Arkansas, what are you specialities?"

Arkansas sat back comfortably in his chair, arms folded across his lap.

"My specialities? I'm a natural leader, I can use any weapon better than the ordinary soldier can, although I don't _specialise_ in any specific one, and I am a brilliant strategist. My A.I. enhances my ability to think up battle plans, and I've often gotten my teammates and myself out of many sticky situations. I also led the defence when Command attacked us at our old base.

The interviewer, Kawashima Tsuneo, head of Kawashima Enterprises, glanced down at the notes he had made on each Freelancer. A hacker, a sniper, an explosives and torture expert, a cryptographer, and a strategist...Tsuneo couldn't believe his luck. With these Freelancers at his disposal, he would crush all opposition, including the Romano family. He looked up at the Spartan opposite him.

"You're hired," he said, a huge smile on his face.

* * *

"You know, Emma, I wouldn't have considered you the compassionate type."

Massachusetts lifted her face off her pillow, bleary eyed, and stared into the gloom at the darkened silhouette of El. Her head felt light and felt like it was spinning slightly, making her drowsy.

"What the hell...would make you consider that?" she asked, leaning heavily on her elbow, attempting to sit up. El put her back against the wall, her skinny arms wrapping themselves around her bare legs, and then shrugged.

"When we took over the Black Market Tunnels...you defended my ass even though you didn't have to. The stories you've told me about training...you don't care about people; you look out for yourself, and the dead don't matter...but you still made us go back for Stan's body. Are you really an asshole, or is it all just an act to make you seem like nothing can hurt you?"

Massachusetts stared at El for a long time. Then she snorted with laughter, throwing her head back as she did. El lay down and waited patiently for the Freelancer to finish her hysterics, and eventually Massachusetts wiped the tears of amusement away from her eyes.

"An _act_?" she said, grinning lopsidedly, her vision spinning at a greater intensity than it was before. "No, I'm genuine, El. I don't care about people or their well-being usually. They have nothing to do with me. However, you lot aren't just 'some people.' I've trained you all from scratch, gotten to know you, shown you my method of operation and my opinion of the way things should be done. You...all of you...you're _my_ team – _my_ squad, and I'll be damned if I didn't care about you."

El paused.

"Are you OK, Massa?" she said finally, her voiced laced with concern. The dizziness had reached its peak for the Freelancer opposite, her head feeling like it was swelling and shrinking, that something was pushing behind her eyes, causing pain in her forehead.

"No," Massachusetts mumbled, and then her head fell forward as she passed out, sliding out of her bed and onto the floor. El went to move see what the hell had just happened, but a sudden overwhelming feeling of instinct washed over her, telling her to stay where she was. She lay perfectly still, keeping her breathing low and laboured like Massachusetts...waiting.

The door to the room opened slowly, the usual creak absent. El had wondered who had oiled the hinges and why, but had thought nothing of it. A person clad entirely in black, their face covered up so only a pair of eyes glinted in the darkness, crept into the room, before closing the door as quietly as possible. They padded across the small room, their feet layered with cloth so they wouldn't make a noise, and slipped a gloved hand into a pouch that was fixed onto their belt. Carefully, they brought out a gun with a silencer fixed on the end, and with slothful deliberation, lowered themselves into a crouch right next to Massachusetts. The stranger paused, and then brought the weapon right next to her head, before clicking the hammer back into place, readying the gun for firing.

El could only watch in horror, her whole body frozen in fear. This would be Massachusetts' first assassin, someone sent to take down the Freelancer. It could be someone from that 'Command' place, or he could've been sent by a rival gang. Either way, if El didn't do something soon, he would kill her. Massachusetts would _die_.

El coughed.

_

* * *

_

Author's notes: I apologise for the lateness of this...but if you are even remotely connected to the RvB community, then you will know the new mini-series, _**'Relocated'**__, has been released. If you did not know this, then you deserve to be team-killed by Caboose._

_Either way, now RvB is out, you can pretty much forget consistent updates, as I will be too busy watching RvB, theorising RvB, comparing RvB theories with people on the RT forums, and training for Grifball with the people of an RT forum I have joined, to write regularly._

_I'll still be writing, of course, but being the RvB fanatic that I am, RvB takes priority._

_Leilah_

_**P.S. For anyone who requested I use a character of theirs or wanted to know if they could use a character of mine, please PM me, as I find it hard keeping track of everything through reviews!**_


	8. Nap Time Comes Before Pants Time

**Nap Time Comes Before Pants Time**

The man sat in the small, dingy cafe, calmly working his way through the cheap, greasy breakfast he had purchased less than ten minutes ago. People sat about, chatting and wasting their lives away in the squalor of the city, struggling to raise families and getting drunk night after night in the bars. This place disgusted him, but at least here, no questions were asked. This was as much an advantage as a disadvantage, however, because although no one wanted to know who he was or where he was from...no one would fend him from death, either.

The waitress picked up his clean plate, eyes glazed over as her trembling hands scooped up the cutlery. He looked at her arms, spotting the telltale signs of needle injections. He glanced up at her face and sighed inwardly. It was haggard and pale, the colour of the skin like parchment, with scabs forming around her mouth, dark circles under her dull, blank eyes. He couldn't understand how people allowed themselves to live like that.

Once the waitress had gone, he sat back in his plastic chair, contemplating his next move. He knew that as soon as he left this cafe, his life would be in danger. For a while now he had been playing cat and mouse, but today it seems she wanted to face him at last. He turned around and looked the silent woman not far behind him in the eye, before nodding to her. She smiled cruelly to him, folding her arms and staring at him with an unwavering gaze, before raising a hand and giving a slight, mocking wave. He faced forward again. She had been toying with him...and even face to face with him she kept that up. He didn't doubt she would accomplish her goal...he had heard many reports of his friends and colleagues found in their homes and in the streets. He wouldn't win her little game, but he could sure as hell put up a fight.

He sighed, draining the last of his coffee, and then stood up, checking the watch on his wrist was secure, and the gun was still safe in his belt, before walking out of the cafe.

Walking out to die.

* * *

El made sure her eyes were shut as the stranger quickly looked up at her, gun raised away from Massachusetts' head. For an agonising moment there was silence, and then El heard him move towards her, his face unbearably close to hers, inspecting her. If she moved now, he could shoot her.

She didn't want to die.

The assassin leant forward, sliding a dagger out from a hidden strap in his boot, and then holding it above the sleeping Asian girl. If she was awake, then she could stop him at any time, but killing her could mean noise, exposing him. He decided to take a risk. If she was awake, she would react and he could kill her quickly. If the drugs were working, then she would be still, and he could continue with his kill. He placed the tip of the blade against her bare leg, and then slowly began pushing the blade in.

Pain shot through El's leg, but instead of yelling out and trying to defend herself, something else happened. The pain triggered a warm feeling to wash over her body, and all fear was forgotten. It became instinctive to lie perfectly still, to not move, no matter what was done to her.

So she did.

The assassin drove the blade in deeper, waiting for even a twitch of pain, but there was nothing. Satisfied, he withdrew his blade, wiping it on the girl's vest top, and turned back to the Freelancer, reaching down to put his dagger back.

Suddenly a hand wrapped itself around his wrist, twisting it sharply. A crack filled the air as the bones snapped, and he let a hiss of agony escape his lips, his teeth clenched together tightly. As he turned to face the attacker, however, the base of El's foot met his face, crunching his nose and knocking him back.

"Dete ik, kono shiri-nuke-me!" El screamed, before jumping on him with the knife raised. They crashed backwards into Massachusetts' bed, the assassin banging his head on the frame, dazing him, all the while El shrieking garbled Japanese swearwords at him.

"Achike, baka kuso atama! Kutabare, kutabare!"

The assassin grabbed her hand with his good arm, trying to keep the dagger away from him, and reached out with his injured one for the gun on the floor that he had dropped. As his fingers inched towards it, however, El raised her fist, her eyes glinting manically.

"Ketsunoana!" she cried, and then punched him as hard as she could between the legs. For a moment, the world went white for the assassin, and then he let out a gasping groan, his whole body shaking and shuddering at the pain, before retching as if he was going to vomit. El took advantage of this, and plunged the knife straight in his chest. The assassin jerked as the blade went in, his mouth gaping, trying to form silent words. El, however, taken by the moment, simply pulled the blade out, and then slashed it across his neck, watching with unnatural calm as a river of blood gushed from his torn throat while he gargled helplessly, soaking her skin and clothes, staining them red. She barely noticed, and continued driving the dagger into his body again and again until all she was stabbing at was a corpse.

Down the corridor, the guards on duty were slouched at their desks, asleep. Only one was awake, a young man nicknamed Choux. He had been trying to wake his friends for some time now, but nothing was working. He grumbled as the pangs in his stomach started, and pressed his hand to his midriff, wishing it would stop, as he had skipped dinner and was now starving. What the hell had happened? Why was everyone asleep?

As he tried to figure out the mystery, he heard screaming down the corridor. Choux glanced at the men passed out on their desks.

"You owe me for this," he grumbled, before sprinting off towards the source of the noise.

* * *

Ashley lived for this, for the kill.

She rose from her seat, following her target out of cafe and into the grimy street. He didn't even look at her as he walked down the pavement, which made her smile. He wasn't running, giving her a chase, as if he had accepted his fate. This was not what Ashley wanted. She craved a hunt; the predator closing in on the helpless prey, and so far, he was denying her. Ashley would not attack a target until they ran from her, which is what many chose to do, not realising had they stayed put she would not kill them. Their fear was so delicious to her that often she would let her finger hover over the trigger, delaying the death while terror mixed with hope filled their faces. Then she would fire and it would all be over.

Ahead of her, her target stopped. Then he turned around to face her.

Ashley was intrigued.

"You want a game?" he called out, the smog-filled air making it difficult to see his expression. Ashley did not reply, so he continued. "This is how you live now? Is this what those _bastards_ have reduced you to? Fine – kill me. I'll give you your entertainment. One day, though...you'll regret it."

Her target suddenly bolted, and Ashley felt a thrill rush through her body. Immediately she fell into a frenzied sprint, the wind whipping through her hair causing the adrenaline to pump. The steady beat of her feet against the cracked tarmac road became a rhythm, a rhythm that could not be broken; the pace could not drop, only increase. She watched as the prey kicked a door down to an old, abandoned building, the rotten wood splintering under the force and falling to pieces, and then grinned as he dashed inside. Picking her way through crumbling edifices always made things...interesting. She ran through the broken doorway, tearing her way up a set of concrete stairs, listening for his pounding footsteps for guidance.

The stairs went on for what seemed to be an age, and Ashley knew her target was tiring, so she purposefully slowed down, her desire for the chase to last as long as possible great. Finally, the man reached the top, panting and gasping for breath, and ran along what was once a car park, around a century ago. Some of the old, metal cars remained, rusted and decaying, forgotten and left there by the museums of 21st Century history. Ashley found them fascinating; everything about the past interested her, due to the lack of her own, and for a moment, she was distracted. She slowed down, her eyes lingering at their buckled frames, and when she glanced up again, her target was gone.

Ashley chuckled.

The man crouched behind a wrecked hub of metal, his pistol raised against his chest. His breathing was heavy, and his face and clothes were drenched with sweat, exhausted from the run for his life. It was impossible to outrun her...but maybe he could out_gun_ her. It was a small chance, but instinct willed him to try anything and everything to survive. Slowly he stepped up, edging around a pillar, pistol held aloft, pressing his back to the stone column. He peered around it, checking for sign of the assassin, but saw nothing.

He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or worried.

As he turned back, however, taking a step forward as he did, Ashley melted out of the shadows, shotgun in hand. There was an almost endless silence for the man, the moment of defeat seemingly eternal, followed by a roar as the assassin fired her weapon at short range. The spray of pellets ripped into his body, red splattering up into his face, flinging him back into the pillar he thought had hidden him. His pistol fell to the ground with a loud clatter, and Ashley stepped forward, kicking it away so he would not be able to use it, should he consider doing so. As she looked down whilst kicking it, though, she failed to notice the man lunge at her, grabbing both her wrists with trembling hands. Ashley jumped and stared at him. He grinned, and then stumbled, dragging her down with him. He landed heavily on his back, grunting in pain, while she landed on his chest, her face twisted in irritation and surprise. She sat up, trying to pull away from him, but he kept firmly hold of her.

"Let go of me!" she hissed, stunned by his strength. He merely laughed at her.

"You know, I never believed you were dead. I knew they were up to something, I just didn't know what...I couldn't prove it," he mumbled, blood bubbling from his lips as he spoke with difficulty.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied sharply, listening carefully to him.

"You don't remember...I know. I found the files...about what they did to you. That's why I'm one of the first to go...not because I'm dangerous...but because I know too much."

"I don't even know who you are," Ashley said, her eyes narrowing. "I was hired by some rich person to kill you, so stop trying to mess with my head."

The dying man didn't answer, but instead coughed, blood dribbling from his mouth. Then he yanked her forward violently, surprising her, dragging her straight into a kiss. The first emotion to flicker through Ashley's mind was horror and disgust. However, a feeling of instinct took over, and it became the most natural thing in the world.

She kissed him back.

Eventually it ended, and she sat up, red smeared across her mouth and cheeks, the taste of metal and salt lingering on her tongue. She trembled, not understanding what she was experiencing, and then shuffled away as the man let go of her wrists, his hands dropping limply to his stomach. He smiled sadly at her, his shaking hands clutching at the ragged remains of his midriff. He stared up at the ceiling of the abandoned car park.

"Perhaps...you...do...remember...something," he whispered, his breath coming out in shudders. Ashley scowled as rage washed over her, the anger clouding everything but her desire to silence him. She scooped up her shotgun and knelt down beside him, spitting a bloody mouthful of saliva into his face, before putting the shotgun to his forehead. He laughed, staring up at her.

"Fuck you," growled Ashley.

She pulled the trigger.

* * *

"Can you hurry up? We're on a deadline," Alabama muttered, checking over his shoulder edgily at the deserted courtyard, the trees and vegetation casting dark shadows all around. York turned and gave him a look that would have killed, had his visor not hidden it completely.

"Will you shut up?" he snapped. "This takes time, believe it or not, and you constantly bitching at me does nothing but provide a distraction!"

"Alright, alright, I was just sayin-"

"Well _don't_. Go guard a bush or something; I don't care, so long as you're not whining down my ear."

Alabama glared, but said nothing, and instead moodily stalked off, wishing he could clout York over the head with his gun and say the enemy had done it. He was just playing bodyguard for York, as ordered by Kawashima. This was the hacker's mission, but one other was need inside in case anything went wrong. It had to just be one, though, or their cover could be blown. Alabama glanced over at York working by the door, watching the tan Freelancer's hands move with great speed over the lock. A second later, it clicked open, and York pushed the metal door gently, allowing it to slide carefully open. He turned to Alabama, signalling for him to follow, and then slowly crept inside.

The basement of the Romano property looked like it had been designed with every horror movie in existence in mind. The walls were dull, grey cement, and the floor was made of metal panelling that clanked loudly when walked on. The only source of light was above them, and it flickered on and off constantly, making shadows in the room stretch and warp out of proportion. In the corner was an old wooden desk, looking extremely out of place in the cold, steel room. Scrunched up papers lay on its surface, along with an old-fashioned pen – a fountain pen – and all the objects were coated with a thick layer of dust. Alabama smiled. He couldn't believe people used to use ink to write...it was so messy and had to be replaced with fresh ink cartridges constantly. Light pens were much more efficient.

Alabama waited while York broke through the next lock, and then walked silently up the stairs, keeping his gun raised in case they were discovered. Eta hovered over his shoulder, the pink glow lighting up the walls slightly.

"Scans show the next area is clear, Al," Eta said, nodding his head to Alabama. The Freelancer signalled to York, who moved up to his position and then began working on the final lock. There was a click and York stood up, stretching his arms.

"We're in," he said simply.

* * *

Massachusetts sat up, clutching her head and groaning.

It really fucking hurt.

"Sig," she moaned softly, dragging herself to her feet and staggering about, her vision spinning wildly. She stepped forward and tripped over a big, cold, heavy something, landing flat on her face with a loud thump, nausea washing over her. Part of her just wanted to lie there until her head cleared up, but the other wanted to know what a big, cold, heavy something was doing lying in her room. The carpet was also damp and sticky, and smelt weird…kind of like metal.

Or blood.

"Oh, fuck me," she sighed, and turned over to look at the big, cold, heavy something. The mutilated, butchered, dead body stared back at her…or it would have, if it had actually had a face left to stare with. Whoever the person had been, their throat had been slit and their head and chest had been hacked to pieces with a knife, which was now embedded in their shoulder.

"Nice," she said, blinking mildly at it and then attempting to stand up again, before giving up and crawling towards the door instead. Suddenly a guard ran in, looking flustered.

"Everyone's finally waking up!" he cried, looking down at her and offering a hand, helping her up. Massachusetts clutched at him to keep herself steady.

"Who are you…and what do you mean, everyone's waking up?" she mumbled, squinting up at him.

"Uhh…most people call me Choux. Everyone was knocked out except me and El…and when I found El, she was murdering some poor bastard with a knife. I would have moved you, but that would mean moving everyone, so I thought I'd leave you here and check back on you later…and then just ten minutes ago everyone began waking up again."

"Where's El?"

"She's been sat in the guard's room for about an hour. Barely said a word…"

"Take me to her," Massachusetts replied, her legs shaking slightly. Choux nodded and put his arm around her, supporting her, while using the other hand to pick up his radio and call Anton. Hopefully he would be awake by now.

* * *

"Drugging the food in the canteen? How could this have happened?" Anton said sharply, pacing around his office. When he had received the call from Choux, he had sent some of his specialist gang members, who were highly paid and often kept separate from the rest of the grunts, to search the entire complex for traces of what could have caused the entire base to fall asleep.

"It seems whoever was attacked by El did it, as traces are on his clothes," replied one of the specialists. "Anyone who ate food from today, whether they were in the canteen or had it brought to their office, would have been affected. Choux said he hadn't eaten dinner tonight, and I don't know about El, but I would guess she hadn't eaten either."

Anton nodded. It made sense; he never ate anywhere _but_ his office. He stood up, putting a hand to his churning stomach as he did.

"I need to speak with our resident Freelancer; go back to the body and try to figure out who he is, why he did it, and why he is currently lying dead in Massachusetts' room."

The specialists left, and Anton paused for a moment, putting a hand to his sore head. Right now, he was in the mood for Shakespeare, but reading meant concentrating, and he felt too ill at the present moment. Sighing, he ambled out of his office and made his way through the base to where Massachusetts and El were being held in the guards' office. When he walked in, the first thing he noticed was a very disgruntled-looking Massachusetts lying flat on her back on the floor, an ice bag on her face.

"Can you actually breathe, my dear Massachusetts?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement. Massachusetts raised an unsteady hand, sticking up her thumb as a sign of confirmation. Anton turned to El, who was sat quietly in corner, drenched in blood, chewing her lip slowly. There was a deep wound at the top of her thigh. He knelt down and put his fingers underneath her chin, lift her head up gently so that she was looking at him.

"What happened, El?" he asked softly. El shuddered, chewing her lip more agitatedly. There was a long pause before she finally spoke.

"...I was just talking to Emma...when she passed out. Then that man came into the room. He put a gun to her head...and then..."

El swallowed and shook her head, before continuing her tale. When she reached the part where she attacked the stranger, her voice trembled slightly, and she looked as if she was going to cry. Then the specialist requested Anton's presence, and he stepped outside the room to talk to them privately, leaving Massachusetts and El alone. The Freelancer waited until the door clicked, and then sat up, the bag of ice sliding off her face, which was now red, and landing in her lap. She flinched at the cold making contact with her legs, and then glanced at El.

"Why so upset?" Massachusetts asked her friend, shrugging. "You kicked ass tonight."

"I've...never killed someone before," El whispered, staring down at her red-stained hands, before turning her head sharply away from them, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Not like that, anyway."

Massachusetts narrowed her eyes.

"That's not all, though, is it? I can tell, El. Something else is bothering you."

El stared out of the office window, keeping her gaze fixated on the light out in the corridor.

"When I...went for that guy...something happened. I didn't feel like me. I _wasn't_ me. I just lost it...and then I was there, stabbing someone to death while they screamed in agony...and I was so _calm_. When I realised what I was doing, I was scared...and then that Choux person found me."

Massachusetts looked at El pointedly until she turned to face the Freelancer. Then Massachusetts smiled.

"El," she said, "trust me, you've probably just picked it up off me. I used to care when I killed, but now I don't give a shit. It does feel like it's not you at first – like you're separate from your body...but you'll get used to it eventually. Don't let it bother you."

El returned a weak, uncertain smile. Anton walked back into the room, worry written on his face.

"We've just identified the mystery man...you've had an assassin sent after you, Massachusetts," he said quietly, his expression deadly serious. "And not just any assassin...one of the higher paid ones. Jeremy Harrison was his name...although he often referred to himself as 'Silencer.'"

There was a pause as Anton sighed heavily.

"You're lucky to be alive."

* * *

_Author's Notes: A message to my friends at T/D._

_Regarding the thing I posted in the Diary thread, I'm sure I missed a few people out. Can you find out who I missed and PM me, so when I'm next at College I can post personal notes to them?_

_Thanks._

_Also, let's see who can guess the references I made to certain...individuals. There are two._

_:K_

_Leilah_


	9. Ass Sliding: It's a Legitimate

**Ass Sliding: It's a Legitimate Strategy**

The day, it seemed, had turned out not quite how Massachusetts had expected.

A Hawk gang member was stood leaning against an old brick wall, a cigarette in his trembling, blue hand. The cold was almost crippling, and thick layers of ice completely covered the old, bumpy roads, making them incredibly slippery. The area he was in right now was a huge and insanely steep hill, which was perfect for sourcing their operations at the top in this weather. No one would attack them here, because no one could get up the icy hill in the first place without falling on their ass.

It was impossible.

He shivered, exhaling heavily from his nose so that his breath came out as steam, floating lazily up into the air and fading away. The man jammed the cigarette in his mouth and took a drag from it while he wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to gain some warmth. Then he jumped as gunfire sounded above. The Hawk raised his gun instantly, but he couldn't move from his position. Sections of the road at midpoint were layered with salt grit, allowing men to stand on guard without fear of slipping, but you could only stay in that area. People at the top had to be careful, though. One false move and they would be sliding down a length of road with great speed to the uninviting rough and stony bottom. He'd seen men have their clothes and skin ripped almost straight off on the way down, staining the ice with a long trail of red.

The Hawk watched the fighting above in silence with the rest of his comrades, waiting for an opportunity to help. They could hear a woman yelling at the top of her voice.

"Fuck you, you…fuckers! Eat lead!" she cried, still out of view.

"I'm sure they're stung by your intelligent choice of words, Massa," said another female voice.

"Shut up, Sig! I'm here to kick ass and chew gum…and I'm all out of gum!"

"And now you're resorting to using one-liners from video games that are at least a century old? Dear God…."

"Sig, help me scan the area, damn it!"

"You already have what you need; why do I need to scan the area?

"Because I need an exit!" the woman bellowed.

"Why don't you just go down that slope behind you?"

"What slo-?"

The Hawk watched as a Spartan appeared into view, but as he took aim at her, she suddenly wobbled violently at the edge of the hill.

"Shitfuckbuggerbastardsonovabitchahhhh!" Massachusetts yelled, waving her arms like a windmill before falling backwards and setting off into a slide down the hill. The Hawk would have laughed, had it not been for the fact that the Spartan, who was sliding on her ass, sparks flying out behind her as her armour drove through the ice and made contact with the tarmac below, was heading straight for him. He dived out of the way, despite her being quite a way away from him, as he knew it would only end badly if he was still there. A car flew out from the top of the hill, driving down after Massachusetts. The tyres were specialised, meaning they had more grip and could go after her with little difficulty. Massachusetts pulled out her pistol and began shooting at the car as she flew backwards, aiming as best as she could at the windshield. After a couple of shots the glass exploded, and the car veered wildly to the left, smashing into what used to be a kerb and flipping over in the air. It landed on its roof and continued to slide down, gaining on Massachusetts.

The Freelancer somehow managed to swivel herself around so that she faced forward, and noticed a gang member stood in front of her, too stunned to move in time. As she slid towards him, she raised her fist.

"FALCON," she bellowed, and then drove her hand in between his legs, pulverising any chance he may have had at being a father. "PUNCH!"

The gang member collapsed on top of her, making her spin in circles as she continued down the hill. With difficulty, she pushed him off her, and then tried to steady herself as the bottom of the hill approached. As she went off the ice and onto the flat part of the road, El pulled out of nearby road in the Freelancer's Warthog, following Massachusetts' process on a basic scanner. She looked up from the device to see Massachusetts and an overturned car rushing towards her, and froze.

"Hit the gas, El!" Massachusetts cried, and El broke out of her trace, slamming her foot down on the pedal. The Warthog sped on forwards, and the Freelancer managed to reach out at the last second and grab the back of the vehicle, nearly knocking it off course and being pulled along by it into a side road. The overturned car whizzed past Massachusetts as she was dragged by the Warthog into the turnoff, missing her by inches. Holding on for dear life, Massachusetts activated her radio.

"El, slow down and let me back in!" she said, feeling her grip loosen slightly on the jeep. The Warthog gradually halted, and Massachusetts shakily stood up, staggered slightly, and the jogged over to the passenger seat, clambering in.

"You alright?" El asked, her face pale as she gunned the jeep up again and set off before the Hawks could catch up to them. Massachusetts nodded mutedly and looked down at her armour. The metal had been scraped down significantly, and would most likely have to be repaired. At least she had her information, though.

Using a gravity lift she had bought off the black market, she had flung herself over their wall of defence from higher ground…and then landed directly on their commander. When she had picked herself up off his shattered body, she was forced to instantly take cover as they opened fire, while Sigma hacked their system and went through their files, finding the information she wanted on Silencer.

* * *

York fiddled irritably with a lock, wondering why the hell he couldn't open it. He was painfully aware that Alabama was watching with some amusement behind him, which only made the Freelancer more determined to break the damn thing. He slowly removed the light pick from the lock, and sighed heavily. Light picks were introduced not long after electronic and holographic locks became the norm of security. Regular lock picks were melted if put anywhere near them, and crime dropped significantly for a short period while criminal syndicates hired scientists to try and step around the solution. Eventually someone came up with the light pick. A light pick could be used repeatedly, but it had a specified battery life. Once depleted, it would have to be charged for twenty-four hours before it could be used again. The light pick itself was not used as a physical way of breaking the lock. Instead, it opened up the security code as a projected hologram, allowing the user to pick through the coding until they found the correct sequence to make the lock open.

York deactivated his light pick and stared at the lock for some time, his visor hiding his expression of deep annoyance.

"Can't do it?" Alabama asked innocently, grinning at the tan Freelancer. York ignored him, and instead put the light pick away, before bringing out a strange object from his belt.

"...why the hell do you have a...what the hell _is_ that?"

"A hairpin."

"A hairpin? Aren't they for...girls?"

York snorted.

"You wouldn't know a girl if she came over and asked you for a tampon."

"Yes I would!" Alabama cried indignantly. "Mississippi's a girl and I knew straight away."

"Oh, right. I forgot about her. Well, looks like you've proven me wrong."

York looked up at Alabama.

"I reckon she likes you, though."

Alabama blinked.

"She never speaks. How can she like me? I think she hates my guts."

"It's her body language, man," York said smoothly. "I can tell these things a mile off. You should talk to her sometime; get to know her and all that jazz."

"You think so?"

"Sure."

Alabama nodded, but then jumped as a bang sounded down the corridor. The two Freelancers froze.

"I'll go check it out," Alabama said slowly, raising his shotgun and silently moving to the source of the noise. Once he had disappeared, Delta appeared over York's shoulder.

"That was quite a sadistic conversation, York," Delta said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"So?" York replied, inserting the hairpin in the lock and fiddling with it.

"Oh, I didn't say it was a _bad_ thing."

York laughed.

"She'll probably kick his ass."

Footsteps sounded, and Delta disappeared again while York fell silent.

"Nothing there. Must have been the wind or some shit."

Alabama stood next to York and watched him work with interest.

"Why are you using a hairpin and not that fancy light thingy?" he asked curiously.

"Because this is an older lock disguised as a new lock," York replied, not looking up. "Clearly someone wants any intruders to think their light pick is malfunctioning or out of battery so that they'd give up. Light picks only work on electronic and holographic locks, which are all locks are these days. However, a light pick won't work on an old fashioned type of lock because they aren't electric in any way."

"Non-electric locks? How the hell does _that_ work?" Alabama said, confused.

"Metal mechanics on the inside instead of electricity running it, basically. You don't see this kind of lock anymore, which is why it's actually safer to have them than an electric or holographic lock these days. They're easier to hack than modern locks, but only with the right equipment. And seeing how everyone thinks electronic and holographic are the best, no one uses the old locks. As new locks melt standard lock picks, they went out of production, replaced by light picks. That means there's no way to get through an ordinary lock without breaking through the damn thing. Lock picks are an extremely rare thing to come by, so if you _do_ find yourself wanting to get through a door that has an ordinary lock on it, without breaking it, then you're pretty much screwed."

"...so why do you have a hairpin again?"

"Because I found out that hairpins work pretty well as a replacement for lock picks, and they're less fragile, too. Same goes for paperclips. And as long as women remain vain and people have to use clips for pointless tasks, then I'll have a cheap and common substitute for lock picks."

"So you don't have a lock pick?"

"Oh, no, I _do_, and they're much more effective than a hairpin; I just prefer to not risk breaking them on a door that can be easily opened. If we were in a rush or it was a particularly difficult lock, only _then_ I would use a pick."

The door suddenly clicked, and York pulled the handle down gently, pushing the door open.

"Let's go," he said, stowing the hairpin away.

* * *

Alabama hadn't seen a house like this before, especially in the Old City. He'd grown up here, living on the streets with the gangs until he was fifteen. Alabama got into a fight and was charged with assault and battery. He had been facing a long stretch in prison, but was given the choice to enlist in the army instead. Deciding that was the better option, Alabama joined the forces, and by the time he was nineteen, his superiors had taken note of him. They alerted the Freelancer Project, who was looking for talented individuals, and a man they called 'the Counsellor' came to the base to assess him. After a series of gruelling tests, he was accepted and taken from his base to where the Freelancer Project was stationed.

However, he often cast his thoughts back to the Old City, wondering how his old friends were doing since he was arrested and shipped away. After the Rail Avenue riots, the fires created had destroyed large sections of the city, eradicating homes and lives. Alabama couldn't remember much of his family, but he didn't really care, either. His dad was a drunk and his mother a drug addict. His brother, who was seventeen at the time, died from having his skull smashed in at the riots, and his twenty-six year old sister had roamed the streets shortly afterwards in high heels and a short skirt, selling herself to try and support her worthless parents and the eleven-year old Alabama. She was found two years later, raped and strangled in a back alley after being missing for two weeks. Alabama stayed a home for several months, but then left when the money ran out, leaving his parents to starve.

He never saw them again.

After he had abandoned the remnants of his broken family, Alabama had wandered the streets for a while, stealing food from shops and sleeping in alleyways. Then he met a small gang of teenagers, ages ranging from ten to nineteen. The eldest, Hawk-Eye, took Alabama under his wing, and he quickly became one of them. At first he was just known as 'Kid', but when a fight broke out in an old, abandoned school, Alabama had hacked down a fifteen-year old boy with a piece of broken glass, saving Hawk-Eye's life. So it was he earned the nickname 'Shard'. All the kids had nicknames, each reflecting either their appearance, or something they had done. There was Copper, his best friend, who had red hair, and Steel and Switch, twins who favoured switchblades and knives. Then there was Sprint, one of the fastest kids around. Hawk-Eye himself had a deadly long-range shot. A girl called Dolly later became part of their group. Alabama never did find out her real name, but 'Dolly' was merely a joke. She was a complete tomboy and as tough as nails. They were the 'originals', calling themselves 'The Hawks' after Hawk-Eye, and although many joined later on, Alabama never cared as much for them as he did for the founding members of their gang.

Alabama remembered how sixteen-year old Dolly had tagged after them for a week, begging to be let into the group. At first Hawk-Eye had refused, but she had been so persistent, that in the end he challenged her to a target practice. Dolly took up the gun and proved herself as good a shot as Hawk-Eye, if not a little slow to reload, and Hawk-Eye grudgingly let her in. Between Dolly and Hawk-Eye, the two of them taught the rest of the children how to use guns and knives, showing them how to fight and defend themselves on the streets. Much to the pre-teen Alabama's disgust, Dolly and Hawk-Eye became a couple, and sometimes things got unbearably soppy whenever the two eldest thought they were alone.

The group expanded, attracting the attention of a rival gang, the Wolves. When the Hawks moved into the Wolves' territory, setting up base in some old train tunnels, all hell broke loose. Subtle moves against each other were lost, and quickly it became open gun-warfare in the middle of crowded streets. While each gang fought to earn their place at the top of the pecking order, the civilians around them suffered greatly. Eventually people stayed inside as much as they possibly could, for fear of being caught in the crossfire. Alabama now felt guilty about the people he had killed by accident, but at the time, he couldn't have cared less.

They shouldn't have got in the way.

Then, when things were looking good for the Hawks, a Wolf broke into their base, gunning down Hawk-Eye before being shot himself. While this shook the entire gang to the core, Alabama was determined to strike back, and took control of the chaos the group had fallen into and plotting retaliation. Within a week, the Hawks had struck back, taking over the hot spots of the tunnels, including the black market pass point. Then they made an attempt on the Russian bastard that led the Wolves, only the bullet missed. Sprint, who had performed the shot, was captured, despite his speed, and tortured for information.

Real life wasn't like the movies. Sprint didn't refuse to give in, or die instead of betray his friends. The enemy didn't admire him for his unbreakable will and keep him like a pet. They tortured him mercilessly, and Sprint talked almost straight away. Then, when he had told them everything, his body a bloody, mangled wreck, they took him out to a part of the railway tunnels that only the Wolves had access to, and left him there to die of his injuries in agony. A week later the Wolves had gone back to check he was dead, and then retrieved the corpse, dumping it on the edge of Hawk territory as a warning. The information Sprint knew hadn't terribly important – only a couple of basic sites were lost – but it was another heavy blow for those who had known him well.

"Bastards..." Alabama muttered. York stopped, turning to look at him.

"Hmm?"

"Just...thinking about when I used to live around here. I was in a gang before being drafted into the army."

"Oh, really? What did you used to do?"

"Sell on guns, fake money, security codes; the works. We had a hacker in our group who could get hold of the necessary information to obtain all our business."

"And what about drugs?"

"No. No drugs."

"All gangs ship drugs through."

"Not ours."

"Aw, come on! Are you scared I'm going to tell the authorities or something? Everyone knows drugs are a main part of gang profi-"

"We didn't involve ourselves in drugs!" Alabama bellowed, slamming his fist on the banister with a loud bang. When he moved his hand away, the wood had buckled, leaving a sizable dent behind. Alabama took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "We didn't involve ourselves with drugs. I _personally_ made sure of it."

"Alright, alright!" York replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Why you so worked up about drugs, anyway?"

"None of your fucking business, asshole," Alabama said sharply. "Let's just get this damn mission done as fast as possible so we can get out of here."

York nodded and continued along the landing of house, opening an unlocked door and stepping into the dark room behind it. Alabama followed, falling into his thoughts once more.

His street gang had been the best of the lower gangs, unlike the big boys, the Kawashimas and Romanos, who could wipe them all out with a click of their fingers. They'd only kept the smaller gangs there for amusement and trade, as well as allies and thugs. The two families had often called upon them for small time jobs…and if you refused…you would probably end up dead.

Alabama couldn't believe he was breaking into the Romano offices.

_

* * *

_

Author's Notes: Computer problems at the moment, so updates will be delayed, but oh well. Relocated was awesome, as always!


	10. The Short Version?

**The Short Version? We're **_**Boned**_

The needlepoint slid slowly into the flesh, breaking through the skin and exploring the vein that lay below the surface. The owner paused, wincing at the stinging sensation that occurred around the puncture in their arm, and then pressed down on the syringe, forcing the lethal substance within to flood in like a toxic lifeblood. They shuddered deeply, closing their eyes and titling their head back as the familiar sensation of pleasure spread all over their body, and their lips trembled in ecstasy, their vision blurring.

"Missi."

A voice cut through the haze the drug was inducing, and Mississippi looked around wildly, their pupils dilated, searching for the speaker. Zeta hung over the Freelancer's shoulder, staring down at her host sadly, watching her beloved host hurt themselves pointlessly. Her expression was laced with pain.

"Missi, you said you'd stop," Zeta whispered, wrapping her arms around her holographic waist and giving the appearance of clutching it tightly. Mississippi smiled weakly, their mouth lopsided.

"Sorry, Z…Zeta," Mississippi slurred, lifting a hand up shakily to touch Zeta's image, before moaning softly and falling forward into a motionless heap on the ground. Zeta watched silently, knowing it would be some time before Mississippi would wake up again. When the Freelancer did, though, her mood would have improved greatly, and the Spartan would be easier to work with.

It would be a while until the next fix was due.

* * *

Alabama lifted his head up groggily, staring blearily into the darkness all around him, faintly aware that his body was dully throbbing.

Where was that idiot, York?

Alabama patiently waited for the familiar pink glow of Eta appear now that he was conscious, but nothing happened. Confused, tried to move, only to realise he was bound tightly to a chair.

"Eta?" he called out, struggling slightly against the thick metal thread wire holding him in place. "Eta?"

"You're finally awake?" a voice called out to him, and a man with slicked-back, black hair stepped out from the shadows, cigarette in hand, a smirk on his face. "I thought Freelancers were supposed to handle their torture?"

Alabama pulled a face, noticing that the pain was increasing rapidly in his body as his head started to clear. He stared at the man opposite him, wary, and then finally looked down properly at himself. His chest was bare, the under suit of his armour pulled down to the waist, and his skin was coated with a red sheen of blood, littered with cuts and bruises, as well as countless cigarette burns. While his heart fluttered frantically at sight of the unexplained injuries, his training suppressed the panic almost instantly, and calm quickly washed over the soldier. So he had been through torture that he didn't remember?

No biggie.

The man signalled for someone that Alabama couldn't quite see, and large, brutish looking thug walked up to the Freelancer, an extremely long and rusty knife in his meaty hand.

"Why are you here?" he asked gruffly, raising the weapon threateningly. Alabama snorted.

"Compensating for something, are you?" he asked. The thug scowled deeply, bringing back the knife as if to slash him. The man with the cigarette, who Alabama had decided was some sort of gangster, put his hand in front of the thug, however, stopping him.

"We don't want to kill him, Curtis," he said mildly. Curtis the thug lowered his weapon.

"Yes, Mr. Romano."

"Just..._cut _him a little."

Curtis grinned, revealed a mouth filled with blackened or missing teeth. The thug put the blade against Alabama's arm, his eyes clearly willing the Freelancer to resist so that he could hurt him. Alabama instinctively took a deep breath as the cold metal touched his skin. He could see dried blood on the blade, and wondered, from the cuts all over him, if it was his.

"Why...are...you...here?" Curtis asked, dragging each word out slowly as if he thought Alabama stupid.

"Bite...me," Alabama replied in the same slothful manner. Curtis smirked and dragged the knife sharply across his victim's arm, causing Alabama to let out a slight hiss from between his teeth. Romano sighed, tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette into the fresh wound.

"Strange how the mind works, Spartan," the gangster said, staring down at him. "It blocks out moments of intense stress, wiping the memory as if it had never existed. Yet you lasted out all forms of torture...except one."

"And that would be?" Alabama snarled.

"The improper removal of your A.I. caused you quite a lot of pain, judging by your reaction. So, with that in mind, we proceeded to continually remove and replace the programme. Unfortunately, this little method rendered you incapable of answering our questions. Now, unless you wish to go through pain so intense your own memory abandons you, I suggest you cooperate."

Alabama laughed, throwing his head back as he did.

"If I'm not going to remember it, then by all means, torture me! What makes you think it won't be a repeat of last time?"

"Oh, I don't doubt it won't be a repeat of last time," Romano replied, a slight smirk on his shadowed face. "But how could I derive myself the pleasure of hearing a Spartan scream and beg for mercy?"

Alabama watched him carefully, knowing his captor wasn't lying. Curtis produced a syringe, digging it into the Freelancers arm and forcing the clear substance into his veins. Alabama shuddered, a feeling of cold washing over him.

"As I said, Spartan," Romano continued, "the mind is a strange and curious thing. However, as I am part of a family that indulges in the business of crime, torture has become an almost daily routine. I've had many of my...subjects lose their memory whilst torturing them. This is...or should I say _was_, a problem. How can we get the required information if our subject cannot recall it?"

"Enlighten me," Alabama spat, suddenly having a very bad feeling about the substance that had just been injected into him. Romano laughed.

"Well, I spent some time with a team of respectable scientists...but respectable or not, when people fall into hard times, they will do almost anything for money. They made a specialised serum for me, which can force the mind to bring back any memory, no matter how stressed the body is by it. Of course, it still needs refining. All memories of the subject return, instead of specified ones, but it is a start."

A pressure started in Alabama's head, just behind the eyes, and panic began to rise up in him. Within minutes he was gasping in terror at what was lying in wait for him, should he choose not to speak. Romano flicked his finished cigarette stub at Alabama's pale and sweat-ridden face, finding amusement in the soldier's pure, unrestrained fear. He leant forward slightly, making his cold, green eyes level with the shaking Freelancer's.

"What are you doing here?" Romano asked, deliberately pronouncing each syllable distinctively. Alabama paused, biting his lip to try to calm himself down. Then he glanced up at Romano, before spitting straight into his face.

Romano slowly straightened up; his features twisted into intense displeasure, and produced a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, wiping away the blooded saliva that was dribbling down from his eyes and onto his cheeks. Then, moving so fast he was almost a blur, he hit Alabama across his face with the back of his hand, breaking the silence with a loud slap.

"Give him ten minutes," Romano hissed, producing the Eta A.I. chip and handing it to Curtis, all the while eyeing the Freelancer with deep loathing. "Then see if he talks."

* * *

"Get gone, York!" Alabama yelled, firing his gun at anyone who got too close. "I'll follow when I've dealt with these assholes!"

York nodded, opening the hatch and swinging into it, sliding down the steep metal flooring, the sound of gunfire growing more distant with each passing second. Keeping his balance perfectly as he slid deeper into the sewer systems, sparks flying out from under his feet, he waited for the clang that would signal Alabama had made it through. After a few minutes, however, a huge explosion sounded, shaking the entire structure York was on. York himself was flung forward, landing on a carpet of slime present on the slope and spinning wildly around. As he tumbled, he managed to steer himself around long enough to see the hatch he had jumped down through had collapsed, and huge parts of the ceiling were now freefalling right behind him. He needed to get off the slope as quickly as possible, before he was crushed by a wayward slab of concrete. York scraped his hands along the steel, doing his best to drag himself to the walls, which had bars. If he could grab one, he'd be able to pull himself to safety. As he reached out for a handhold, however, a chunk of debris hit him across the head, stunning him. He could only watch, dazed, as the end of the slope drew nearer and nearer, a dark waiting to swallow him whole.

For a moment, York felt the strange sensation of weightlessness, something unheard of for a soldier who wore such heavy armour. His stomach churned as he plummeted, and he took a deep breath, waiting for the impact that would kill him.

York gasped in shock when he hit the body of water below that the darkness had hidden, the unexpected mercy taking him by surprise. However, as he began to travel down like a stone through the sewer waters, he realised death was simply being postponed. He had two hours worth of oxygen in his suit before he would suffocate, and his armour prevented him from swimming back up to the surface.

_Looks like I'll be walking out of this one,_ he thought to himself as his feet hit the ground, sinking slightly in the layer of sludge that lay on the bottom of the water. He switched on the light that was on his armour, illuminating the thick drifts of murky water around him, and took a slow and laboured step forward.

"D, is there any way out of here?" he said, grunting with effort as he forced his other leg forward.

"Scanning," Delta replied, and his green colour momentarily flashed to blue.

"Hurry up, D," York grumbled. "I don't want to waste time going in the wrong direction!"

"Travelling at the pace you are now in your given direction, I estimate a total of hundred and twelve minutes until you reach water shallow enough to surface from."

"Nearly two hours?" York groaned. "It's cutting it close."

"Well," Delta continued, "it could have been one hundred and twenty-one minutes."

Had York not known his A.I. as well as he did, he wouldn't have recognised the subtle joke thrown in. The Freelancer grinned, blinking as sweat dropped down from his forehead and onto his eyes, stinging slightly.

"If I make it out of here alive, D, it'll be a miracle."

* * *

Alabama opened and closed his mouth soundlessly like a fish out of water, the burning sensation in his head so strong words couldn't form from his lips. Sound ceased to exist when his own head was crippling him as it struggled to adjust to the A.I. relentlessly ripping its way through into mind. What he wouldn't _give_ for it to stop, but at the same time, his pride prevented him from betraying the others. Curtis yanked the chip out carelessly from a specialised 'host' band that had been placed on the Freelancer's wrist, and the agony returned in a fresh, raging wave. This time Alabama did make a noise – a hacking, choking sound, similar to those on the verge of death. Alabama knew he was dying.

He could feel the strength leaving his body, his sight abandoning his eyes, the terrible, terrible pain rising until he could bear it no longer...

And then it was gone.

The Freelancer gasped in sharp, shuddering breaths, the absence of the pain a sudden and shocking relief. Curtis watched Alabama pant and shiver, his shoulders heaving as he tried to regain his composure. Soon the chip would be put back in again, but maybe there was a way to reduce the effect it had in him...maybe...

Alabama attempted to cast his thoughts on other memories, but the only one he could focus on was the mission he had screwed up. It was better than nothing, though, and so Alabama concentrated his thoughts as best he could.

"_We didn't involve ourselves in drugs!" Alabama bellowed, slamming his fist on the banister with a loud bang. When he moved his hand away, the wood had buckled, leaving a sizable dent behind. Alabama took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "We didn't involve ourselves with drugs. I __personally__ made sure of it."_

"_Alright, alright!" York replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Why you so worked up about drugs, anyway?"_

"_None of your fucking business, asshole," Alabama said sharply. "Let's just get this damn mission done as fast as possible so we can get out of here."_

_York nodded and continued along the landing of house, opening an unlocked door and stepping into the dark room behind it. Alabama followed, falling into his thoughts once more._

_His street gang had been the best of the lower gangs, unlike the big boys, the Kawashimas and Romanos, who could wipe them all out with a click of their fingers. They'd only kept the smaller gangs there for amusement and trade, as well as allies and thugs. The two families had often called upon them for small time jobs…and if you refused…you would probably end up dead._

_Alabama couldn't believe he was breaking into the Romano offices. Had he done this back in his youth, he would have been caught and shot._

_It suddenly occurred to Alabama that he'd still be shot if he was caught here._

You can become a badass, cyborg-armoured solider and still be treated like a damn street rat_, he thought to himself, slightly annoyed by this revelation. He watched as York leant over a computer on a polished, wooden desk, both clearly expensive objects, the Freelancer tapping lightly at the keys as he accessed the files present. He removed a small chip, pointing it at the computer, a small blue light flickering on for a moment._

"_Done," York said, stowing the chip away in a small compartment in his armour._

"_Done what?" Alabama asked, confused. York glanced up at him as he logged the computer off and checked his gun._

"_The chip is wireless, Al. I've just streamed the entire of their databanks onto it."_

"_Oh." Alabama paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "That seemed almost...too easy."_

_York shrugged. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth."_

"_...what?"_

"_Never mind. Let's just bail, okay?"_

"_Fine by me. This place sets me on the freaking edge."_

_A sudden bang of a door being flung open in the wide hallway below made the two Freelancers whip around with speed, guns raised at the source of the unknown disturbance. There was a brief silence, before Alabama turned slightly to York and nodding his head with minimum movement, indicating he was going to go ahead and investigate. York returned the signal, stepping over to the wall and pressing his back against it, crouched low to make his visibility minimal._

_Alabama stalked carefully out into the open corridor, keeping the tread of his walk soft and light to avoid noise. With caution, he slowly looked over the banister that gave a clear view of the hallway, and to his horror, saw members of the Romano family congregating down below. He stepped back sharply, returning hastily to the room where York was._

"_The Romanos," Alabama said in a low voice. "They're here."_

"_What?" York hissed. "How could they be here? They weren't supposed to return for another week!"_

"_I don't know," Alabama said, shrugging and glancing warily over his shoulder, "but we'll probably find out when we get back to Kawashima. Where's the location of the emergency exit?"_

"_Downstairs by the main entrance, behind some painting of a girl in a dress"_

"_Great. That's exactly where they're all standing."_

"_Well, we'll just have to hide until we get the chance to move-"_

_A group of gangsters walked past the doorway, forcing York to cut off his speech immediately. Luckily, they were too busy with their own conversation, and didn't notice._

"_...so she won't stop sending those letters?" Alabama heard one of the men outside the room say. "Damn, she is persistent."_

"_Does Mr Romano know about it?" a voice replied._

"_Unfortunately, yes. It's distressing him greatly, which is unsurprising after what happened to dearest Ash--wait."_

_The footsteps down the corridor stopped, and for the briefest of moments, Alabama thought that someone may have seen them, but only had just realised._

"_Why is this part of the banister crumpled like paper?"_

_Alabama froze. York glanced at him, glowering._

"_I don't know. It wasn't like that when we left."_

"_...it seems we either have an intruder in the house, or there has been one previously. Check everywhere, including the databanks!"_

"_Yes sir!"_

_The two Freelancers barely had time to react before a young man ran into the room they were in. He stopped and stared at them._

"_...shit," Alabama muttered. As the man reached for his gun, York quickly raised his silenced pistol and shot him down. He fell backwards into the computer, knocking it over with almighty crash. York sighed, putting a hand to his head._

"_This mission is officially screwed."_

"_You've only just noticed?" Alabama snapped back. "I say we make a run for it. We've got all the info we need."_

"_Good enough for me!" York replied, jumping up into a sprint and barrelling his way through the door just as some of the group returned to investigate the noise. He sent them flying in all directions before vaulting over the banister into the hallway below. Alabama quickly followed his example, jumping over the men knocked over as he did. York ripped the painting off the wall and quickly accessed the security panel to the door blocking their escape. Within seconds the door opened, the speed of his companion impressing Alabama._

_The two of them set off down the tunnel, their adversaries not far behind. After a few minutes of continuous running, the narrow tunnel opened out into a wide room, with a single hatch in the corner, surrounded by crates._

"_That leads to the sewers below," York said, kneeling down to open the hatch. As he did, however, Romano's men began to clamber into the room, opening fire, forcing Alabama to duck down behind the crates. He loaded his gun and then stood up again, shooting those who got too close to him._

"_Get gone, York!" Alabama yelled. "I'll follow when I've dealt with these assholes!"_

_York nodded, opening the hatch and swinging into it, disappearing from sight. Alabama smiled to himself. He hadn't planned on escaping. There were too many, and the information York had was the most important thing for the time being._

_Alabama had screwed up the mission, and he intended to put things right._

_Removing two plasma grenades from his belt, he activated them and tossed one up to the ceiling, and the other on the edge of the hatch, before diving out into the open. A large section of floor and ceiling collapsed as the grenade exploded, blocking off the entrance to the hatch. There was no way to give chase to the escaped Freelancer._

_Furious, the men turned their guns to Alabama, not shooting, but instead waiting for their boss to arrive. Romano stepped out from the group, his face twisted in distaste at the destruction Alabama had caused._

"_Take him up to the torture room," he snapped._

A hand clamped on Alabama's chin, dragging his head up sharply. The Freelancer blearily opened his eyes, squinting up at the smirk of Romano.

"I thought you may have passed out," he said, digging his nails into Alabama's skin. "Seems I was wrong."

"It doesn't matter what you do to me," Alabama mumbled, his eyelids drooping, "I don't have the information you need."

"It's not the data you took that I want to know about; I am well aware of that. No, I want to know whom you work for and _why_ my father's home was your target. How did you find out the house would be empty at that time?"

"Yeah, well we obviously didn't, did we? You came back..."

"There was an unexpected change of plan." Romano's tone was sharp and harsh as he began to shake Alabama violently, the volume of his voice rising. "Who. Do. You. Work. For?"

The Freelancer slowly forced his eyes open, staring at Romano. His dry and cracked lips opened slightly, and a small and bitter laugh emerged from them.

"I think you already know."


	11. 50G Epiphany Your Life is Worthless

**50G - Epiphany - Your Life is Worthless**

"Duck, Ark!"

Arkansas dropped into crouch, and flinched as Iowa's sniper shot zoomed over him with a loud crack. The bullet went straight through the head of an enemy who had been approaching him with a gun raised, passing through the helmet. Then Arkansas watched in amazement as the shot carried on with tremendous speed, slamming its way through two more skulls of two men stood behind the original target.

"Nice shot, Iowa!" Arkansas exclaimed through his radio. "Cover me; I'm going for the hammer. Missi, you follow my lead."

"Got it," Iowa replied, loading his gun and firing several shots in succession. Each of his targets fell down dead. A small, grey bar with a flower decoration flashed across his visor. "What the-?"

"What is it?" Arkansas and Mississippi ducked behind a set of crates as a grenade sailed past, exploding not far from them and blasting a broken wall into pieces. Part of the debris flew out, hitting Mississippi in the head, knocking them out. "Damn it, it'll have to wait! Missi's down! Iota, scan the area; I need to get her to a secure location!"

"To your right, five feet, there is a small room. Not much protection, but more than out here," the A.I. replied, bringing a simple map up for their host to follow. Arkansas scooped Mississippi up, staggering at the burden. He had forgotten how much Spartans weighed, even if they were female. He staggered across the compound towards the cover, praying the enemy's aim would be as consistently bad as it had been so far. Sniper shots flew overhead, taking down anyone that got remotely close to him. Arkansas was sure as hell glad Iowa was on his side – he'd never seen such a deadly sniper shot as his friend's.

Meanwhile, Iowa was getting irritated.

"Why does this little grey bar keep popping up, damn it?" he yelled, the anomaly flickering across his visor as he took down enemy after enemy with perfect headshots. It was obscuring his precious view.

"Focus, Iowa!" Arkansas ordered down his radio sharply as he reached his destination, setting Mississippi down.

"I can't _see_! This thing keeps getting in the wa-shit, look out behind you!"

Arkansas whirled around in time to see something he never thought he would witness in his life. As a soldier charged at the unprepared Spartan, Iowa hastily raised his weapon, caught off guard, and fired it.

He missed.

Luckily, for Arkansas, the shot startled his enemy, allowing him to dash forward and crunch his gun into his opponent's face. The man let out a yell of agony, before being cut off as he fell to the ground and hit his head, knocking him out. As he turned back to check on Mississippi, the little, grey bar with the flower Iowa had mentioned appeared on his own visor.

_Bleep bloop_

"What in the hell?" he said, staring at it.

"You've got one, too?" Iowa said, his voice a growl, irritated by his embarrassing miss.

"Yeah," Arkansas replied, squinting at the minute writing on the bar. "It says..."

Iowa waited patiently throughout Arkansas' pause of disbelief.

"...Achievable Unlocked: Up Close and Personal."

"_What?"_

"Snipe someone and take a look at yours, because I sure as hell don't know what's going on."

Iowa raised his gun and took someone out with ease.

_Bleep bloop_

_Achievable Unlocked: Headshot Honcho_

"I'm...I...ugh," Iowa said, lost for words. "Tau, do you have any idea what's going on?"

The red A.I. scanned his files. Within moments, he had an answer.

"Command tried to be ethical with the treatment of its soldiers, it seems," the A.I. said.

"You mean _after _they implanted A.I. into our minds and drove most of us into insanity or death...or both?"

"Yeah, that. Anyway, a little update was added to the armour. Every time you do something worthy of recognition, the system automatically awards you with an achievement record...or 'achievable'."

"Do they think we're five years old or something?" Iowa snorted.

"I think they planned to remove it after test soldiers became irritated by the constant praise...but then never got around to it. The internal reports state that the Director cancelled the Freelancer Program, and it was considered a waste of resources to remove the programming when the armour was never going to be used anyway."

"Ah, I see. Idiots...wait; you have _internal_ access to Command's computers?"

"All A.I. can access internal open Command files. We're part of the military – it's engrained in us to be able to access it. However, we can't reach encrypted or classified files...well, we aren't _supposed_ to...but that's nothing a good hacking upgrade can't cure."

Iowa grinned at his A.I. as he took aim through the sniper scope, ending another life with ease at the pull of a trigger.

"Is there any way to deactivate this 'achievables' thing?"

"Give me one moment..."

Iowa tapped his fingers against the barrel of the sniper rifle impatiently, waiting.

"Done."

Iowa sighed in relief. He would have been driven crazy by it.

"Iowa, were you planning on getting rid of the men turning our cover into bullet riddled _dust_ at any point?" Arkansas yelled, retreating to a wall and attempting to shield the vulnerable Mississippi, who was still lying motionless on the floor. Suddenly his radio crackled.

"Arkansas...under sewers...abama...trou...help..."

"York, is that you?" Arkansas signalled for Iota to increase the receiver settings on his headset, making the incoming call clearer.

"Yeah, it's me," York replied, his voice extremely faint. "Look, I can barely hear you. My mission went to hell; I'm currently trudging through the bottom sewer lake trying to find a way out before my oxygen levels deplete completely, and I think Al is being held by the enemy."

"You _think_?"

"The sewer entrance exploded before Al could follow me. I don't know what happened, but he's not responding to my radio calls. His headset's either been destroyed or turned off. I managed to get the information we needed for the mission, though."

"Forget the mission, what about Al-?"

"Like I said, I _don't know_," York interrupted impatiently. "I don't know whether I'm going to get out of here alive or not, but the Romanos have no way of finding me under all this water. I won't float to the top, so even if I suffocate, they can't get to me straight away."

"What do you want me to do?" Arkansas asked, jumping slightly as Iowa took out all the nearby hostiles.

"Get Al out of that place, if he's still alive. Get someone to take him back to base. Then the rest of you will have to go down to the sewers and locate me or my dead body to get the information needed. Follow the signal Delta will send out if necessary."

"Won't the Romanos notice the signal?"

"They won't be looking for it though, will they?"

"Point taken. Arkansas out."

Arkansas stepped out of his cover as Iowa took down the last enemy.

"Change of plan," he shouted. "Get the jeep fired up while I get Missi. I'll explain along the way."

* * *

_blink blink blink_

_You're scum_

_blink blink blink_

_A drug addict_

_blink blink blink_

_Worthless_

"It's part of my job," Alpha Three mumbled, putting his face in his hands and exhaling heavily. His eyes were red and sore from lack of sleep, his whole body twitching and trembling occasionally. He had also noticed the blinking pattern had changed, but he didn't know why. "I don't take them because I want to. I _have_ to. It's my job."

_blink blink blink_

_But you know you are addicted_

_Don't deny it_

"Shut up," Alpha Three whispered, his fingers digging deep into his skin. "I wish I didn't have to take them...because then I'd get rid of you."

_blink blink blink_

_So you'd kill me_

_Murder me?_

"I..." Alpha Three began, unsure where the conversation was going. He slowly lowered his hands, staring at the manipulative cursor on his screen. To end its voice in his head would be bliss...but could he really kill again?

"...yes. Yes, I would," he spat bitterly, glaring at the blinking cursor with contempt.

_blink blink blink_

_The coffee wasn't enough for you?_

"That was your fault."

_No it wasn't. I told you to leave coffee alone, because he didn't exist. I didn't tell you to end his young and precious life_

"I'm so sorry," Alpha Three moaned, nearing hysterics at the crippling guilt of the coffee he had murdered. "I'm so, so very sorr-"

_Sorry isn't good enough_

_Murderer_

"Don't call me that," the solider said sharply, clutching tightly at the computer screen.

_blink blink blink_

_Murderer_

"Don't call me that!" Alpha Three screamed, shaking the monitor violently.

_Blink blink blink_

_Murderer_

_Murderer_

_Murderer_

Alpha Three stood up, knocking his chair over backwards,

_MurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMud_

picking up the monitor with both hands,

_ererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurderer_

and ripping it away from the wires that connected it to the wall,

_MurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMud_

before staggering under its weight. He shifted it in his arms, regaining his balance

_ererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMurderer_

and then threw it across the room with all his might. It hit the wall with a huge crash, the plastic casing buckling, the screen exploding outwards, sending glass flying out like deadly, razor-sharp missiles. A strange feeling washed over Alpha Three, chilling him to the bone, but almost crippling him with relief at the same time. It had not been like this since his records had been altered to K.I.A. Alpha Three slowly sunk to the floor, pressing his back against the wall and savouring what was now in his head.

Silence.

He laughed, closing his eyes and smiling. It was gone.

_blink blink blink_

Alpha Three could feel the blinking, clawing through his brain like a wild demon. Despair choked him, and he could only stare at the destroyed computer not far from him in muted horror.

_You can't get rid of me_

_blink blink blink_

_I've made a home in you, murderer_

"What can I do?" Alpha Three asked, shaking his head and pulling at his dyed brown hair.

_blink blink blink_

_End it all, murderer_

"What?"

_blink blink blink_

_You have a gun at your waist_

_You killed coffee, and you tried to kill me_

_Why not kill yourself? We could make a trend out of it_

"But...I...."

_You want to get rid of me, right?_

_I live in your head_

_blink blink blink_

_If you blast your brains out, I'll have nowhere to go_

_You'll get what you want_

"I'll die, though."

_Is that such a heavy price to pay to be rid of me?_

Alpha Three paused.

"No," he said finally, before calmly pulling the gun out of its holster and pushing the barrel firmly to his temple.

* * *

Ashley Romano had a new mission, one that she liked the sound of _very_ much. She was to assassinate a specialised military solider called a 'Freelancer'.

_Interesting_.

The call had come early on a Tuesday morning, by an organisation that would only name themselves as 'Command', waking her up from a deep sleep. She never remembered what went on in the brief periods between assassinations, which troubled her sometimes. However, she never dwelled on it. It seemed...irrelevant. She'd padded through the abandoned flat, searching through the jacket she'd left on the floor for her mobile. The flat was practically hers, and she felt safe leaving her things lying around. Squatters and tramps had once infested the place, but when Ashley had produced her shotgun, they'd seen her side of things and left quickly. Everyone knew it was dangerous to try to move in on her territory, and as she was only a small-time assassin, the big fish left her alone. She hadn't killed anyone important enough yet to be considered a target in her own line of work, unlike her newly assigned prey.

"...committed several acts of murder, and assisted in the recent gang wars in the train tunnels," her employer had said down the phone once she had located the damn thing. "One of the gangs sent a well known assassin after her, Silencer, but he was killed before he could do his job."

"Silencer is dead?" she had asked, mildly surprised. Assassins pretty much knew one another, and sometimes went after or assisted each other, for the sake of competition. Silencer did both, and often brought new, but promising, assassins with him on dangerous missions, to see if they were a threat to his business. If they barely completed the mission, screwed it up so bad that Silencer had to do all the work, or died, then Silencer had known they were not worth bothering with, and left them alone. However, if they completed the mission with impeccable standards that rivalled the great assassin's himself, he would kill them the second they let their guard down. That way, he was generally unmatched in his job, and prospective employers usually went to him. It was rumoured he was considering Ashley as a companion for his next mission. New people weren't supposed to know about Silencer's double-crossing tendencies, but Ashley always managed to worm inside information out of people. Had Silencer asked her to accompany him, she would have accepted, completed the mission, and then murdered him before he had a chance to murder _her_.

"Yes, Silencer is dead," the employer replied. "Your target was lucky, but if you play your cards right, you can take her down with ease."

"Anything you can tell me about my mark?"

"Her name is Emma Dufresne, or 'Agent Massachusetts'. You are to locate her at a base in the south-west train tunnels, kill her in any method you see fit, and obtain her A.I. chip, 'Sigma'. Once you have this chip, return to a secure location, and then call us. You will know the number when you have the A.I."

"OK, got it." Ashley had written down the details on the back of a scrap of paper, tucking it into her pocket.

"Do not underestimate her," the speaker warned. "She has the advantage by having A.I. assistance. She is also violent and incredibly dangerous."

Ashley Romano laughed.

"So am I, my dear sir. So am I...."

--

Mississippi groaned as they came around, their vision spinning slightly as they slowly opened their eyes. Zeta flitted across the helmet visor, looking down curiously at her host.

"How are you feeling, Missi?" she asked. Mississippi shook their head, and then sat up, leaning back against the side of the jeep.

"So you're finally awake?" Arkansas called from the front seat. Mississippi nodded slowly, not looking up at him.

"She's fine," Zeta replied, smiling placidly. "Just a knock to the head, nothing more."

"Why do you always answer for her?" Iowa asked, turning away from the steering wheel and looking at the pretty A.I.

"Because she's..." Zeta looked at her host, who rolled their eyes behind their visor. "Because she's a mute."

"A mute?" Iowa stared.

"Yes, a mute. She...well, her speech is muted, like, in the sense that she cannot speak very well...or at all...hence the title...mute..." the A.I.'s voice trailed off.

_Smooth_, Mississippi said inwardly to Zeta.

_Oh, shut up,_ Zeta grumbled back.

_Why are you acting as if you didn't expect the question? It's not often an A.I. speaks for its host. You could have a t least come up with a better excuse...or lied more efficiently._

_Oh, shut up, Missi. They're bound to find out the real reason eventually._

_Maybe so, but I plan to delay that moment for as long as possible._

"How did you cope being a mute before Zeta?" Iowa asked, facing the road again.

"With difficulty," Zeta replied.

"We are almost at our targeted destination," Tau chipped in suddenly, eyeing the sweet looking Zeta with intense dislike. "I suggest we cut the phatic talk and get ready to recover Alabama."

Iowa nodded, glancing in the mirror to check his sniper rifle was still safe in the back.

* * *

"If you have no more information in that head of yours," Romano said calmly, "then you are of no further use to us. I suggest you think your next answer carefully before you answer. My men are quite skilled in clean, but painful, executions."

"Ask and I will tell," Alabama replied dully. It didn't matter if they found out he was lying; he was a dead man either way.

"If the Kawashimas are indeed responsible for sending you in-"

"I never said the Kawashimas sent me."

"You implied it."

"Implying isn't telling. I could be leading you down the wrong direction completely, as my employers may have intended."

"Are you stating a fact there?"

"You tell me."

"This is no time for games, Spartan," Romano said quietly. Alabama attempted to smile.

"I know that, asshole," he mumbled weakly. Romano scowled.

"Do you _wish_ to be executed?"

Alabama lifted his head slowly, staring at Romano, before glancing down at his own battered and bloody form. Then he looked back at the gangster, his eyelids half-drooping from exhaustion.

"Is that a trick question?" he asked incredulous, head lolling to the side.

"You...want to die?" Romano said carefully, studying the Freelancer intently.

"I don't _want_ to die," Alabama replied pointedly, wincing as the pain in his head intensified for a moment, before settling again. "I especially don't want to be murdered in an excruciating manner by your thugs. However, after death, I'll feel nothing. Two things happen when you fuck with a person's mind; you either break their will to hold secrets, or you break their will to live. If dying means I get to throw in a few insults before you stop this fucking torture, then I'm all game. So why don't you just shoot me now...or is the big, bad gangster boy too much of a coward to do his own dirty work? I guess you don't like blood on your own hands, you pathetic piece of shit."

Romano seemed to be having an internal battle inside his own head, and for one blissful moment Alabama thought his captor would actually do it. He steeled himself for it, but then Romano cast him an ugly look.

"I'll make you a deal," he said, his face devoid of all emotion. "You answer every single question I give you to my satisfaction, and I will give you a mercy killing, painless and quick. Perhaps even in your sleep."

"Screw you," Alabama said fiercely. "I don't betray my employers, and I don't betray my friends."

Alabama paused.

"Or any arrogant, annoying jerks I may have been working with at the time," he added, thinking of York.

Romano shrugged.

"Fine," he said, watching Alabama with a sadistic gleam in his eye. "Curtis, get the A.I. chip. Let's see if we can kill him by overdosing his body with pain."

"No..." Alabama whispered, watching the thug approach slowly and deliberately, allowing his fear to accelerate. "No! For the love of God, just kill me! Kill me now, I know nothing else!"

Alabama watched Romano walk away, ignoring him completely. Fear clutched at the Freelancer as Curtis prepared to insert the chip, and he began to scream out to the gangster in desperation, struggling against his tight bonds as much as his aching body would allow.

"Kill me, God damn it! For fuck's sake, just fucking kill me, please! I'm begging you! Please! Kill me!"

Romano paused at the door, turning his head slightly to look at the Spartan, who quickly fell silent.

"No," he said simply, before leaving the room.

* * *

_Author's Note's: Apologies for the delay. I'm currently in the middle of my exams, so it will be a while until another update._


	12. Down is the New Up

**Down is the New Up**

Perhaps it wasn't the best planned assault of the century, but it was all Arkansas and Iota could come up with in such a limited time space. He just hoped their rushed attempt at rescue wasn't going to cost Alabama his life...if he was even still breathing.

"Is this...going to...hurt?" Iowa asked tentatively, glancing warily at the explosives wired around his feet. Zeta shrugged.

"We have no gravity lifts, so all I can assure you is that it won't kill you or incinerate any limbs," she said, tilting her head to one side and smiling brightly. "You aren't going to be getting in any other way from above."

"Don't worry, Iowa," Arkansas said quickly, noticing that the grey Freelancer was having second thoughts. "Look, just stick to the plan and you'll be fine."

"Being exploded 100 feet or so into the air does not give me the feeling of 'fine'," Iowa muttered under his breath. He didn't move from his position, though, which Arkansas had to admire.

"OK," Zeta said cheerily as Arkansas and Mississippi stood far back from Iowa. "Now, when I count to three, we'll-"

"On three or-" Iowa began, but before he could finish, Arkansas rolled his eyes and shot at the explosives with his pistol. As the Freelancer was rocketed straight upwards screaming, the other two sprinted towards the front door of the Romano mansion, guns at the ready. Iowa soared upward, reaching the pinnacle of his ascent and then falling in a sharp arc down towards the mansion roof. Their scanners indicated that Alabama was being kept at the top floor, and that the henchman guarding him was...

"There you are," Iowa whispered to himself, ceasing to bellow his lungs out. Using the scanner to pinpoint the right location, he aimed his sniper rifle and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Curtis forced Alabama to look up, and sighed with disappointment as his victim barely seemed to register him. His source of fun was beginning to die...literally. The human body could only withstand so much torture before it gave up, after all. This guy...this Freelancer was finally resigning himself to his fate. Only a few more times using the A.I. chip and he'd be gone.

"I'm gonna miss you," Curtis grunted. "You were the toughest one to break. Good times."

Raising a hacksaw to hit his prisoner with (because he liked to see them bleed just that little bit more before he finished them off) he paused, hearing a strange yelling in the distance. As the shout reached a crescendo, a loud crack sounded and something small blasted out of the ceiling. Curtis stared dumbly up at the hole. Then, as the blood began to gush from the fresh bullet wound in his head, he collapsed to the ground, dead. Seconds later, the ceiling gave way as Iowa followed the path of the bullet he had fired. Unfortunately for Iowa, his body armour didn't want to stop in that room, and so he carried on through the floor (and several others).

Meanwhile, Arkansas was pinned down in the main foyer. For as long as that group of men remained clustered behind their cover, there was no way of moving forward.

A sudden bang above them caused every person in the room to look up. They were greeted to a flailing Iowa falling downwards into the room. Arkansas watched as Iowa landed straight on the soldiers that were causing him the problem. Convenient.

He liked it.

"Iowa?" he said through the radio, checking his ally was alright.

"Mmghhrgh?" Iowa groaned down his comm. Arkansas took that as he was fine, and aimed for an enemy that was a little too far out into the open. A quick pull on his trigger and they lay dead.

With Iowa rejoining them, they made short work of the opposition. When the last man fell, the Freelancers swiftly reloaded their weapons and made their way up the stairs.

"Was Alabama where we thought he was?" Arkansas asked as they thudded up the countless flights of stairs towards their destination.

"I saw someone tied to a chair in the room, but I couldn't tell you if it was him or not," Iowa replied, before stopping and turning, firing a round into a guard's head. He reloaded, and then continued to follow his friends. "Guess there's only one way to find out, huh?"

Mississippi nodded and then tossed a grenade over their shoulder. It tumbled gracefully, landing with artful precision at the base of the stairs, destroying any hope the enemy had of following the Freelancers.

* * *

Arkansas kicked the door down and leapt into the torture room, before reeling back in disgust. Despite the filters in armour, he could still smell the strong stench of metal and body odour. Gagging, he activated the small torch on his gun, and quickly scanned the room. There was a man strapped to the chair, barely conscious, like Iowa had said...but someone was stood behind him with...

"Stand back," spat Romano, pushing the barrel of the pistol deeper into Alabama's head. "Stand back or I'll plaster the floor with the small amount of brain he has."

The Freelancers immediately pointed their weapons at Romano.

"Great," Arkansas cursed. "We're at a stalemate."

"Damn right you are," Romano retorted bitterly. "You come into my home and try to steal from my family, and then act as if you have every right to barge in and claim back your thief! Return to Kawashima and tell him I will not let him threaten my father any longer!"

Zeta flashed up beside Mississippi, her silver glow illuminating the entire room.

"Hey," she said, her voice calm and collected, her tone so smooth that all turned to face her, despite themselves. The A.I. ignored everyone else and instead looked at Romano. "You're tired, aren't you? All you want to do is protect your family from us...protect your father. You wanted to get the information needed from your hostage, and you haven't been able to, despite trying your best methods. You're frustrated and afraid, because Kawashima hasn't been so bold before."

"Shut up," Romano said sharply, sweat dripping from his forehead. Strands of his hair were falling away from its slicked back style, and dark bags were under his eyes. He wore what appeared to be the remains of a suit. The blazer was gone, along with the tie, the white shirt with rolled up sleeves and unbuttoned collar remaining. There was dust on his black trousers, and his black shoes were scuffed and dirty.

"You're cracking with desperation," Zeta continued, trying to make his will cave. "If you shoot our friend now, we will kill you without a second thought. Your father will be at his enemies' mercy."

Romano watched the A.I. carefully, his breathing heavy. He hated to admit it, but he was cornered. If he was lucky, he would get out of this alive. The glowing girl also made an extremely good point: his father was old and becoming senile. The loss of Ashley from the family had done little to help him. He loved his father dearly and would do anything to protect him. If he died, his father would be alone...

"Let him go, though, and we will leave quietly. Isn't that right?" Zeta stared directly at Arkansas, who nodded quickly. Iowa mumbled in agreement, although Arkansas could tell he didn't like it. Mississippi tilted their head silently to show cooperation.

Romano paused, and then slowly took the gun away from Alabama.

"His A.I. chip is over there," Romano said quietly, waving his hand towards the corner of the room. "Along with his armour. You have twenty minutes to get out, and then I take matters into my own hands again."

He left briskly, leaving the Freelancers alone. As soon as he was gone, Mississippi ran towards Alabama, letting Zeta inspect him. Tau and Iota appeared to help light the room as best as they could.

"Christ," Iowa said, kneeling down and staring at Alabama. "He's a...a mess."

"Mess doesn't cover it," Arkansas said, his voice trembling slightly with fury. Despite the fact he had not been present for the mission, he still felt responsibility for all of his 'team.' Whatever had happened to Alabama, those that did it weren't human. There wasn't an inch of his skin that wasn't scabbed, bruised, or cut. His face was unshaven and oddly shaped, the bruising and swelling forcing it out of proportion, and the lower half of his body was completely covered in dry, crusted blood, turning his once green armour reddish brown.

Mississippi and Zeta, meanwhile, were inspecting the torture instruments.

"Saws, knives, cigarettes...glass?" Zeta paused, wincing. Glass was an effective but brutal instrument of torture. She usually put her foot down whenever Mississippi had tried to use glass. "Vodka...probably to put in the cuts...drugs, chemicals, and...oh my..."

"What?" Arkansas asked sharply, already on edge as it was. Zeta glanced at him, clearly disturbed.

"Ark...they've been..."

"What?" Arkansas yelled, his temper snapping. Mississippi stood up and pointing their gun at Arkansas, shaking slightly. The red Freelancer drew his own weapon, wondering what was going on.

"Missi," Zeta said quickly, "Please, don't. Calm down. Tension is high at the moment."

Mississippi paused, and then lowered their weapon, an air of disgust practically radiating from the Freelancer. Arkansas kept his weapon up for a few moments, but one look from Zeta made him stand down.

"What have they done to Al?" Arkansas asked, trying to keep his tone calm.

"They've been ripping the chip from his A.I. slot and forcing it back in without doing the proper procedure...repeatedly."

Iowa and Arkansas both flinched, and then glanced at Alabama.

"Holy shit," Iowa croaked. "How in the hell did he not give any information away?"

"Never mind that," Arkansas said. "How in the hell is he still _alive?"_

"We can't move him right now," Tau piped up suddenly. "I just gave him a full scan; he's in an extremely fragile state. He may be fine if we move him...or too much of a disturbance may kill him. It depends on how much fight he has left in him...and judging by how he looks, there's probably not a lot left."

"We have less than ten minutes to leave this property," Iota interjected. "If we don't leave now, we could lose more than Alabama."

"Oh don't you start," Tau growled, flaring up.

While the A.I. began to bicker (and their hosts tried to stop them fighting), Mississippi glanced down at Alabama. Then the Freelancer looked at Zeta.

"Are you sure?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. Mississippi nodded. "You're growing fond of him, aren't you?"

_It's respect, not affection, Zay,_ Mississippi said to her inwardly. _The man endured some of the worst torture methods a Freelancer could receive, and still lives to tell the tale. Plus, he gave away no information. He's tough and loyal, and deserves more credit than what most give him. Tell them, before our time runs out._

Zeta smiled softly at her host.

"Arkansas!" she called out loudly. "We'll take him."

The arguing died away immediately.

"You'll do what?" Arkansas asked.

"Missi and I will take him back to the jeep and escape. You and Iowa distract the guards and then escape on foot. How does that sound?"

Arkansas paused, and then turned to his blue A.I.

"Iota, what are your thoughts?"

"A sound plan. I am ashamed to have not thought of it myself."

Iowa smirked behind his visor and reloaded his sniper rifle with enthusiasm.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

* * *

Mississippi clung desperately to the wheel as the jeep skidded over the Romano grounds. Bullets pinged off the metal work, and one managed to hit the windscreen with such force, it shattered. Glass flew into Mississippi and Alabama, but bounced harmlessly off their body armour and into the interior of the jeep. Alabama had been put back into his armour before being strapped into the front seat. Eta was back in his armour, for safekeeping.

"Hold on, Al!" Mississippi yelled, revving up the vehicle. The jeep shot towards the closed mansion gates.

"We're not going to force our way through it, Missi!" Zeta cried out. Mississippi shook their head.

"Watch me." The Freelancer slipped a custom made grenade off their belt and threw it in the direction of the gates. As soon as it made contact, the barrier was blasted away, leaving the jeep free to bolt through the flames and out to freedom.

"We did it!" Mississippi cried, bouncing up and down in the jeep seat. "We actually di-"

"Missi, it's a trap!" Zeta screamed suddenly, bringing up a map on Mississippi's visor. The path just past the gate was littered with landmines.

"Shit!" Mississippi exclaimed, veering the jeep sharply to the left.

The Romano household was built at the end of an old, bridged freeway that was no longer in use. Romano senior had liked it this way, as it meant his enemies would have to work to reach him. It had also made him feel like he was above the squalor of the Old City. The Romano family had renovated their section of freeway, making it secure, and then built their mansion. However, this now left Mississippi in a precarious position. As the jeep veered to the left, it hit the barrier of the freeway. For one heart-stopping moment, Mississippi thought it would hold...but then a loud clang sounded as the metal gave way, and the jeep plummeted off the side of the freeway.

Mississippi immediately grabbed Alabama, undoing the straps that held him in his place. If this went according to plan, they could walk away relatively unscathed. Zeta had lied about Mississippi not having a gravity lift, because her host liked to keep one for emergencies. This was one such emergency.

Holding tightly onto Alabama, Mississippi forced them both out of the jeep, letting them freefall. Then the Freelancer took the gravity lift off their belt and threw it, hoping it would reach the ground and activate before they did.

The blue beam of light erupted up, and Mississippi laughed hysterically. The crazy plan worked! They'd hit the beam, shoot up in the air slightly, and then fall down at a slower rate before being held by the—

The Freelancers hit the lift beam and were instantly flung into the air. Instead of falling back into the beam, though, they fell either side of it with an almighty crash. Mississippi groaned, the wind knocked out of them, and then blearily looked up, trying to find Alabama. He lay not far away, motionless, which worried Mississippi.

"Zeta, do a scan," the Freelancer wheezed, trying to get their breath back. The A.I. nodded and turned blue for a moment, before returning to her usual silver.

"Alive and well," she concluded, causing Mississippi to sigh in relief. "He's had a nasty knock, but all his vitals say he'll live with no lasting effects."

"That's...that's good." Mississippi grinned dopily behind their visor, and then passed out.

From the shadows of the ruined buildings of the Old City, out crept several figures, all wearing grey, their faces covered. They inspected the two unconscious Freelancers, curious as to where the silver girl made of light had gone, and then tried to move the soldiers. It was quickly determined they'd need heavy lifting if they wanted to shift their new hostages.

"Sir?" a Hawk said, radioing his boss. He quickly informed his superior on the situation, and then nodded at the command given. "Understood. Over and out."

* * *

The blinding light hurt Alabama's eyes. He shut them again, his entire body feeling numb. He couldn't remember much after Romano left the room...perhaps the torture had finally killed him? If he was at peace, then was he in heaven?

The afterlife...Alabama had never really considered it before, assuming that if there was one, he would surely go to Hell for his actions in his younger. Religion had never been a strong part of Alabama's life – not only because his parents were too busy shooting themselves up to take their children to church, but because his sweet sister had been murdered. What God would let such an innocent die for trying to support her family? If there was such a deity, then Alabama didn't want to worship it. Still, he'd often wished he could believe, just so he could comfort himself into thinking he would see her again.

"_He's waking up."_

The voice echoed all around him, scratching at the inside of his skull. More talking began, ringing around his head. It was...maddening.

"Shut up..." he mumbled.

"_He spoke!"_

"_Quiet down." _It was a man's voice that sounded like he was talking through a radio. _"He's gone through trauma. He even asked you to stop talking. Whisper, if you have to."_

"_Will do, sir."_

The door opened, and someone left the room. The light pushing against Alabama's eyelids suddenly dimmed. He opened them again with difficulty to see someone leaning over him.

"Welcome back," they said softly, dabbing at his forehead with a damp cloth. "We thought you weren't going to pull through for a while. Your armoured friend hasn't left your side since we brought you both in."

"Missi," Alabama murmured, smiling slightly, before slipping out of consciousness.

When he awoke again, the world seemed much clearer. Alabama sat up slowly, pushing himself back into his bed. The room he was in wasn't bright at all, which indicated how sensitive his eyes must have been the last time he was awake. It didn't look particularly clean, and the sheets on his bed were grubby. The whole room was metal, with pipes webbing out across the walls. It looked like an old storeroom, similar to the one...

"No," Alabama said, shocked. His eyes widened as recognition caused a flood of memories to crash back to him.

"Alabama?"

Alabama looked down to see Mississippi sat on the floor against the wall. Zeta hovered over his shoulder, watching Alabama with concern.

"Zeta?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "Why are you...what am I doing here?"

"We rescued you!" she said brightly, flickering across the room to him and appearing right in front of his face. He winced, the light stinging. Zeta noticed and quickly dimmed herself. "Sorry, I forgot. How are you feeling?"

"Good, I guess," Alabama replied. "But...rescued me? What the hell are you talking about?"

"You don't remember being held by the Romanos?"

"No."

"Or what they did to you with Eta?"

"Eta..." Alabama mumbled. A sudden crippling fear overcame him, and he gripped the sheets tightly in his hands as fragments of memory flicked through his mind. He was tortured with his own A.I. for information. York escaped. He was beaten. Cut. Burnt. Broken. And the A.I...God, the A.I...

Alabama put his face in his hands, gripping at his hair. He couldn't remember if he gave anything away, but the pain...it was so intense...

"Tell me I held my silence," Alabama croaked, not looking at the A.I.

"You did," Zeta said gently. On the floor, Mississippi stirred and then stretched, before noticing the A.I. and Alabama conversing. Immediately, the Freelancer stood up, looking at Zeta, and then at Alabama.

"Missi wants to know if you're alright," Zeta voiced, reading her host's thoughts.

"I'm fine...but Zeta said you...rescued me. How?"

Mississippi motioned to Zeta, who nodded and smiled.

"Well, we received a message from York..."

* * *

_Author's Notes: I'm not back. This was passed along through school email. Not sure when my internet is restored._

_Leilah_


	13. Home Videos

**Home Videos**

York breathed in and out heavily, his chest heaving as his air supply ran low. It was becoming extremely difficult to inhale and he found himself tiring. York had slowed down along the way due to his dwindling oxygen, and now faced certain suffocation if he didn't get out of the sewer lake soon.

"Five minutes, York," Delta warned, flashing across York's visor briefly.

"O...kay...Del...ta," York wheezed trying to speed up. His legs ached while his lungs burned, starved of precious air. He suspected he was going to die down here, alone. York shivered, hating the thought. He'd managed to keep his voice perfectly calm while informing Arkansas of his predicament, but now trapped in the dark without a friendly voice, he could feel himself close to giving up.

"Delta," he said.

"It would be unwise for you to speak, York," Delta replied instantly. "You will simply waste your-"

"Please...D, this is...important."

"More important than staying alive?"

"Yes. Hear...me...out."

"Humans have strange priorities, but go ahead, if you think it so urgent."

"Delta...was I...stupid...to let...her go?"

"Her? Do you mean Agent Massachusetts?"

"Yes, D...Massa."

"Judging by your tone of voice and her being the reason you are here, I think you know the answer to that already."

"I want your...opinion."

"Yes, you were, York."

York fell silent, thinking of Massachusetts. If he was going to die, he wanted his last moments spent with her. Her pale skin, her long, dark hair, her beautiful green eyes...

"I loved...her, D," York said, his voice breaking slightly. "I loved...her and...I threw...it all...away...and now I'll...never get...the chance...to see...her again."

Delta paused, unsure what to say. He didn't understand human love, the most illogical of all emotions, but he knew it often caused York great amounts of distress and upset.

"Perhaps it would be best to concentrate on the mission," the A.I. said quickly. "All this will do is distract you."

"D...you don't...under...stand...humans. I was at...at my...happiest...with her. I'm not going...to make it...so I want...her to...to be the las...last thing on my...mind..."

York staggered, his legs nearly failing him as he began to feel dizzy.

"York," Delta, said sharply. "You're almost there. Don't give up now."

"Play the...file...D," York said, ignoring his A.I.'s urgency. Delta shook his head, but accessed what his host requested. It was York's most treasured possession; his most private possession.

A light shone from York's suit, projecting the video into the murky water. It showed his old room, back at Command. He had taken this with an old recorder that he'd managed to smuggle into the training facility, and had made video diaries of his time there. The last entry, a month after graduation, was the one he held close to his heart.

The image moved to his bed, rustling slightly as it zoomed in on its occupant.

"_Emma," _his voice sung inside the digital memory. _"Wakey wakey, Emma!"_

"_Mgh..."_ the person sleeping shifted slightly, and then rubbed her eyes, looking up at the past York. _"What are you doing?"_

"_Video diary, Em. I consider this important enough to, uh, document."_

"_Hey, unless this is a mating documentary with demonstrations, I'm not interested."_

"_Well, now you mention it..."_

Massachusetts sat up in the bed, stretching so that the sheets fell away to reveal the upper half of her toned and naked body. The camera closed in on her face, which was smiling mischievously at him.

"_You better not be focusing what I think you're focusing on, New Boy," _she said, putting her hands on her hips.

"_What, me?"_ he said in an innocent tone_. "Never."_

"_I'll believe it when I see it."_

"_All the time in the world, Emma. But right now we're doing important work. You wanted a documentary on mating, remember?"_

Massachusetts laughed, her cheeks flushing slightly pink as she drew the sheets up her chin. His past self set the camera down on the bedside table, and he sat next to her on the bed. York watched himself kiss Massachusetts and felt a pang of loss. The York on the video kissed her again, pulling her closer while she reached out to the camera to turn it off. The video ended mid-kiss, the image freezing on that last moment.

"York?" Delta said delicately. "One minute left."

One minute...

He had been walking all the time the video was playing, but now he was left with a choice. Stand and stare at a memory for the last minute of his life, one of the best moments of his life.

Or fight for his life and open up the option to make more memories with her.

"Would she...take me back...D?"

"Fifty seconds, York."

"Answer the...question."

"I don't know, York. Forty-five seconds."

"Delta...forget...logic. Think...of what you've...learnt...about...humans."

"Humans are stupid, proud, and arrogant. They act on impulse and are completely irrational...and yet when they love each other, differences and bad decisions disappear in an instant between them. Against all logic...yes, I think she would. Thirty seconds."

"Then why...the fuck...am I standing...here?" York groaned, throwing himself forward.

With five seconds to spare, the surface of the water exploded upwards as a metal hulk emerged from it, staggering. York managed a few steps before falling to his knees. Fumbling briefly with the clasps on his armour, the Freelancer ripped his helmet off and threw it forward where it landed at the muddy top of the slope with a splat, staying in place. York gasped for breath, nearly blacking out as fresh air rushed into his lungs, and then bent over, retching. The world was spinning violently as he frantically inhaled the rancid sewer air, barely registering the stench. His arms gave way, and he landed on his front, lying in the wet filth.

"D, play the video," he mumbled, his world darkening. He knew he was going to pass out any second, but at the very least he could look at Massachusetts again before he did. Delta nodded and played the file again, watching as his host smiled dopily at the projection from his suit, before his eyelids slowly shut by themselves.

Delta watched York for a moment and then turned to the video diary while he sent out a signal for Arkansas to follow. York had almost died, and yet all he wanted to do was watch himself talk to Agent Massachusetts about reproduction?

"Humans are strange," Delta said aloud to himself as he started the signal. Then he tilted his head as York kissed Massachusetts on the video. Delta knew he was wrong. Humans weren't the ones who were strange.

Love was.

* * *

"So, where are we exactly?" Alabama asked once he'd heard the daring rescue the others had performed to get hold of him.

"Well, after our little tumble off the freeway, the local gangs picked us up," Zeta began, but Alabama interrupted her.

"I knew it!" he cried, clapping his hands together excitedly. "We're at the Hawks, right?"

"Yes," Zeta replied, stunned. "How did you...?"

"You could call him the foundations of this gang," a voice said from the doorway. Alabama looked up to see a young man stood in the doorway wearing dark burgundy suit with a brown tie. His hair was red.

"Copper?" Alabama asked incredulously. "Is...is that you?"

"Yeah, Shard, it is." Copper grinned and strode over to his childhood friend, crouching at the bed and embracing him. Alabama laughed happily. He had missed his best friend ever since he'd been arrested and drafted into the army. When the two broke apart, the Freelancer shook his head.

"I never thought I'd see you or this place again, man. How is everyone?

Copper's expression darkened.

"After you left, everything went to hell, Shard. Switch betrayed us all and went to the Wolves. When his brother refused to go with him, he shot him. As for Dolly, she hung herself in her room. Couldn't bear to be without Hawk-Eye any longer. I was made leader simply because I was the last 'original' left. First thing I did was hunt down that fucker, Switch and made an example of him. We don't allow traitors here."

Alabama said nothing, depressed by this sudden news. Nearly all the happy parts of his childhood had been wiped away like they had never existed. Steel, Switch, Dolly...

Copper put a firm hand on Alabama's shoulder.

"It's hard, I know, and I'm sorry I had to tell you like this...but you needed to know. I would have told you earlier, but you'd been drafted into the army with no forwarding address."

"It's okay," Alabama replied, swallowing to try and get rid of the horrible lump that had risen up in his throat. He quickly wiped his eyes to try and get rid of the tears before they fell. Mississippi and Zeta turned away respectfully to try and give him some privacy. Finally, when he felt ready again, he spoke:

"Copper, how's business with the gang, then? Is it going well?"

"No, actually," his friend replied, looking grateful for the subject change. "We were doing brilliantly until your Freelancer Project ended. One of your 'co-workers' has been hired by the Wolves and is causing quite a bit of crap for us, if I'm honest."

"Which one?"

"Massachusetts, I think he's called."

"Ah." Alabama wasn't too familiar with the other agents, but he seemed to recall that one...only he thought Massachusetts was female, not male. It didn't particularly matter.

"I need help, Shard," Copper said, his tone close to pleading. "We'll go under if we keep losing ground like we are. When you're recovered, do you think you could give assistance to some of my men?"

"Copper," Alabama replied with a grin, "once a Hawk, always a Hawk. I'd do it right now if I wasn't so fucked up. Give me some time to heal and I'll gladly help."

"We'll help, too," Zeta added. Mississippi nodded firmly. Copper smiled.

"Excellent. Knew I could count on you, Shard. Look, I have to set up some defensives around the tunnels...and maybe buy some new weapons. I hear there's military guns on the black market...but I'll drop by later if you're awake, yeah?"

"Can't wait. Now go on, go do your leader thing."

Copper nodded, looking pleased, and then left. Zeta immediately rounded on Alabama.

"You used to be in a gang?" she asked excitedly, her glow flickering slightly as she appeared beside him. "Tell me all about it!"

"Long story, Zeta. I used to run this place with a few friends, but was arrested and given the option of a prison sentence or the army. I chose the army."

"Good choice," the A.I. replied brightly. "If you hadn't, you wouldn't have gotten Eta, would you?"

"Eta." Alabama froze at the word, looking petrified. Zeta noticed immediately and stared, her expression one of concern.

"Al, are you...alright?" she asked. The Freelancer shook his head.

"Keep that fucking thing away from me. I don't want anything to do with it."

"But it's...your A.I. Eta depends on you. He's been so worried for you."

Mississippi produced the chip and held it out to Alabama. As soon as Alabama saw the chip, memories of the dark torture room flickering across his vision; the memories of pain, death...and fear.

"No!" Alabama screamed, his eyes filled with terror. He lashed out at Mississippi, knocking the A.I. chip out of their grasp and into the air.

"Catch it, Missi!" Zeta cried and Mississippi lunged frantically for it, managing to grab it just before it hit the floor. Zeta flared up, infuriated.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she spat, her colour changing rapidly. "You could have destroyed Eta!"

"Keep Eta away from me," Alabama snapped back, trembling as he shied away from the chip that Mississippi held. "Please, for the love of God, keep it away from me. I don't want to see that room again."

"That room? What are you...?"

_Remember his torture, Zeta. He wasn't just damaged physically,_ Mississippi said inwardly to the A.I. Zeta paused, and then turned to Eta, realising what her host meant.

"Oh, Al," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I...I don't know what to say."

Mississippi put the chip in a small container on the armour for safe keeping and then shook their head. A Freelancer developing a phobia of their own A.I.? This needed to be resolved as quickly as possible. Rejection from the host was always hard on an A.I., but Eta in particular was unstable.

In the short time he'd been in Mississippi's armour, he'd had long conversations with Zeta talking about how ashamed he felt of himself and everything around him. Even Zeta's sunny disposition couldn't bring the pink A.I. out of his self hatred and desperate need to prove himself to his host. From what Mississippi could gather, Eta absolutely adored Alabama, because he was the only one who didn't make the computer programme feel shameful.

This rejection would be devastating for Eta.

* * *

Alpha Three sat on the floor next to the wreckage of his computer in the resource. He was talking to himself, trying to convince himself to commit suicide.

_Why not kill yourself? We could make a trend out of it_

"But...I..." Alpha Three began, but the voice interrupted.

_You want to get rid of me, right?_

_I live in your head_

_blink blink blink_

_If you blast your brains out, I'll have nowhere to go_

_You'll get what you want_

"I'll die, though." This seemed kind of obvious to Alpha Three. Why hadn't the voice considered that little flaw? It was almost as if the voice was purposefully trying to hurt him...

_Is that such a heavy price to pay to be rid of me?_

Alpha Three paused.

"No," he said finally, before calmly pulling the gun out of its holster and pushing the barrel firmly to his temple.

Alpha Two walked into the corridor, humming. She had been called back from her mission early due to a problem with her radio. A mission such as hers could have no flaws in it, no errors. Errors would lead to what happened to Alpha One, who had disappeared completely. Command had been furious that their best had defaulted, but really, it was their own fault. Alpha Two secretly wished Alpha One the best of luck, and envied their escape from the lifestyle the Alpha Squad led.

A tremendous crash sounded down the hallway in the direction of the resource room. That was usually where Alpha Three worked, talking to himself while he wrote his mission reports. She had just been on her way to see him.

"Three?" Alpha Two called out. There was no response, which worried her. She sprinted towards the resource room, praying he wasn't about to do something stupid. Reaching the doorway, she saw the gun pressed against his head.

"Three!" she said urgently, and he glanced up at her, a small smile on his face.

"I can…I can escape. Get it out of my mind," he murmured, his eyes not focusing on her properly.

"Put the gun down, Three," Alpha Two begged, getting on her hands and knees and inching towards him slowly. She came as close as she dared, and then held her hand out to him. "Please, Three, give me the gun."

"Ignore her!" a voice spat out suddenly, making Alpha Two flinch. It was then she realised exactly what was causing a majority of Alpha Three's problems...or more _who_.

"Three, look at me," Alpha Two said loudly. He did as he was told. "I hear the voice, too. You're not crazy. It's just trying to hurt you."

"I'm not crazy?" Alpha Three repeated, his voice barely more than a whisper. Alpha Two nodded frantically, flexing her fingers to try and convince him to give her his weapon. "But then I have to do this. I can't bear it any longer."

"Three." Alpha Two's became so desperate, Alpha Three paused. "Please...don't leave me. Don't leave me on my own. I can't do this alone."

For the longest of moments, she thought he may ignore her. Then he slowly took the gun away and pressed it into her hand. Alpha Two put on the safety and threw it to the other side of the room, before moving to her friend and holding his hands.

"...Thank you."

Alpha Three snatched his hands away from her and covered his eyes, beginning to sob. A dark red hologram appeared over his shoulder, its face twisted in bitter fury.

"Spoil my fun?" it hissed, its voice so warped it barely sounded human. Alpha Two slowly took the weeping Alpha three into an embrace so that he wouldn't see the vicious entity, and held him as if he were a child.

"You have no right to do that," she said sharply the source of red light now spilling onto her. "No god damn right at all, Psi."

Psi said nothing, instead stretching his mouth into a dark and sinister grin. Oh how he enjoyed toying with his host...


	14. Familiar Faces

**Familiar Faces**

It wasn't long before Alabama was back on his feet. Despite his injuries the grubby recovery room, the Hawks' medical staff was extremely competent, working in the bad conditions as well as any other doctor.

Alabama sat and ate breakfast in the canteen with Mississippi, who simply watched their friend eat while they sat silent with their helmet on. Not long ago, this would have made him feel extremely uncomfortable, but after the Freelancer and the A.I. had saved his life, he'd become more relaxed around them.

"Not eating?" he asked, regardless. Zeta shook her head.

"Missi ate in our room. She prefers to eat in private."

Alabama studied the A.I. carefully. She was glowing less brightly than usual, and she appeared older and more haggard...like she was tired and weary.

"Zeta, are you alright?" Alabama set down his spoon. "You look...ill."

Could A.I.s even get ill?

"I'm fine, Al," she replied, although her expression told Alabama she was lying. "I just had an argument with-"

Mississippi banged their fist down on the table, cutting Zeta off and silencing the whole canteen. Zeta looked down nervously at her hands, clearly upset. Mississippi stood up abruptly, knocking back their chair in temper and storming out of the facility. Alabama watched them go, shocked.

Once in the privacy of their room, Mississippi let rip.

"My private life is not up for fucking discussion, Zay!" the Freelancer bellowed, their face red with fury. "What the hell were you playing at, announcing it at the breakfast table in front of _him_?"

"He's my friend!" Zeta snapped, her eyes flashing with anger. "And you know, sometimes I need a friend, because my own host won't speak for-!"

"You know why I won-" Mississippi began, trying to cut across her.

"Because you're scared of what people will say? Because people will tease you? Grow up, you pathetic excuse for a soldier. Yes, there would be ridiculing, but does it really matter? I trust Alabama. He wouldn't treat you like that!"

"You don't understand, Zay. You're not..."

Mississippi's voice trailed off, realising what they were about to say.

"Go on," Zeta spat. "Finish it. I can already hear the words in your head anyway. Let's see if you've got the guts to vocalise it."

"You're not human," Mississippi growled. The wounded look on Zeta's face made the Freelancer regret it instantly. Anger left Mississippi, and the solider sank down slowly onto the reinforced chair.

"I...I'm sorry, Zay. I just need my fix, is all."

"Sure. I know how it all works. You always just 'need your fix." Zeta's tone was heavy with bitterness. Mississippi opened their mouth to argue, but then closed it and sighed instead.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this, Zay. It's getting to the point where the highs aren't...aren't worth the lows."

"Then give it all up. Give me up and show the world you're just another sad drug addict."

"Maybe that's all I am, Zay" Mississippi said, sighing. "Maybe that's all I've ever been."

Zeta gave her host a look of utter disgust, and then disappeared back into her chip.

* * *

"So fucking predictable."

Sigma sat on the desk, watching Massachusetts with interest.

"What's predictable, Massa?" she asked, swinging her purple legs.

"I sold off the Freelancer guns...and those idiots, the Hawks, snapped them up immediately." Massachusetts yawned and stood up, knocking back the chair she had been sat on. "I probably would have sold them off to a smaller gang, because competition is good...but they hired that assassin. That's not playing fair, is it?"

"No, it's not," Sigma replied, grinning a little. She had grown extremely fond of her host since her implantation, finding Massachusetts' willingness to compromise worked well with her creative flow. Perhaps her methods were a little too blunt and direct for Sigma's tastes, but the A.I. found she was having more influence over the Freelancer lately. Perhaps she'd be able to convince Massachusetts to lay off the trigger a little bit and—

"Fuck's sake!" Massachusetts cried, stamping her foot. "That clock keeps jamming no matter how many times I fix it!"

She drew out her pistol and shot at it, shattering it to pieces and leaving bullet holes in the wall.

"That'll teach you. Stupid fucking clock."

Sigma sighed. Somehow she suspected her Freelancer would always be a gun wielding maniac.

El burst into the room, gun drawn.

"What happened?" she cried, searching for an enemy or a dead body, but finding none. "Who fired the shots?"

"I did," Massachusetts replied, blowing away the smoke from the barrel of her gun and holstering it. Damn, she felt like such a badass.

"Well, who's dead?" El asked, becoming confused.

"The clock," Sigma said dully, not bothering to tell her Freelancer off for unnecessary destruction of property.

"Stupid thing jammed again," Massachusetts growled, picking up the pieces and tossing them into the bin. El stared, and then slowly lowered her weapon.

"You shot...the clock?" she said, blinking several times. "We do have repair men here, Emma."

"Really?" Massachusetts tilted her head and then picked up the bin containing the ruined clock, thrusting it into El's arms. "Give them that and tell them to make it snappy."

* * *

The gun recoiled in El's hands as she fired into the target, her small frame being pushed back slightly from the force of the weapon. She had thrown herself into training since she had killed the assassin, hoping that wading through violence might trigger the killer instinct she seemed to have. So far she had been unsuccessful, which in itself was driving her crazy. How the hell had she managed to stay still and calm while having a knife pushed in her leg? Why could she butcher a man one minute but then sob about it the next?

As El's temper rose, she fired three successive shots with perfect aim into the target, and then froze. She had never made a hit like that before, let alone three of them. As her curiosity overtook her frustration, she tried again. All the shots missed.

"What the...?" she said, looking at the gun with shock. She had been frustrated; angry.

Anger. Anger was the key.

"El," a voice called from across the room. El turned to see Massachusetts waving to her. "Wanna go get a drink?"

"Sure," she shouted back, casting her eyes to her gun momentarily. She let her arms fall to her side and smiled at her friend instead. "Where were you thinking of going?"

Massachusetts shrugged. "I was just going to wander the city until I saw a bar I liked."

El grinned and skipped over to the Freelancer, who wasn't wearing her usual armour. Instead she had on a pair of jeans, flats, and a black vest top that revealed her naval. El was surprised to see that the Freelancer had also had it pierced, just like her.

"Didn't know you were one for dressing up, Emma," El said, and then nodded at the bar in Massachusetts' stomach. "Or body piercing, for that matter."

"Well, I'm hardly going to go for a drink in full battle regalia. Might as well blend in while I can. Besides, I'm not leaving everything behind..."

The Freelancer indicated to the pistol in a holster at her waist. She took out the gun to show her friend a strange compartment on it.

"Customised weapon. Had an A.I. slot added to it so Sig can come, too!"

El folded her arms and pulled a face. "Em, they won't let you take a gun into a bar."

Massachusetts grinned and put her dark purple jacket on. El had to admit that it concealed the weapon extremely well.

"Get changed and stop your bitching. Tonight we're gonna get shitfaced, and I won't take no for an answer."

* * *

"Hey, uh, Missi," Alabama said, approaching the Freelancer nervously. They were in the Recreation Room, where most played poker or pool, ignoring the book case in the corner. Mississippi was the only one holding an old, yellowed, novel, sat in a reinforced chair in full armour, engrossed in it. The Freelancer looked up at Alabama, an air of weariness in the way they moved. There was an awkward silence as they both waited for Zeta to appear. She did not and Mississippi sighed deeply, before waving a hand to indicate Alabama could continue.

"Uh, well, you see...I was...well, I was wondering," he started, tripping over his words. Mississippi tilted their head and folded their arms, watching Alabama closely. "Well, because, um, you, uh, saved my life and all, and because, uh, well we have a, uh, a lot of free time on our hands..."

Mississippi began tapping their fingers against their metal plated arms irritably. Alabama took it as a 'hurry the fuck up' and quickly blurted out what he wanted to say.

"Would you like to go out for a drink some time?"

Mississippi stared.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit, _Alabama thought frantically. He had to correct this situation right now.

"Well just a drink, you see. Not a date...well, OK, maybe a date, but only if you want it to be. It could be a friendly drink and not a date at all, although it will seem like a date, but it isn't-"

Mississippi stood up and Alabama fell silent. The Freelancer shook their head briskly, not saying a word, and then walked out of the room, leaving Alabama alone.

"Smooth, Al," he muttered to himself. A gang member suddenly appeared beside him.

"Sir, Copper wishes to see you."

* * *

"Reports from my men on the street say that the Wolves' Freelancer is out in the open." Copper sat at his desk with a glass of whiskey, looking extremely pleased with himself. He swirled the drink absent-mindedly as he spoke. "Gone for a night out, apparently. Without her armour...unarmed."

"Her?" Alabama leaned back in his seat, confused. "I thought you said Massachusetts was a man?"

"I thought she was, but it turns out I was wrong. Female: dark hair, average height, pale skin, slender, green eyes."

Alabama cast his mind back the fight against Command when Project Freelancer collapsed on itself. He vaguely remembered a woman of such a description. She had hijacked a Command aircraft using a gravity lift and her A.I., bringing fresh supplies to their side. Had it not been for her, he would not be here now. Alabama felt a slight pang of guilt at the thought of killing her, but knew he couldn't abandon Copper and the Hawks. They were his family: his only true family.

Copper gave a quick description of the clothes Massachusetts was wearing, and then handed him a chip to put in his armour, which contained a photograph of the Freelancer and her companion for the night. He also handed Alabama smoke grenades: a standard piece of equipment for the Hawks.

"Kill them both, Shard," Copper said. His tone disturbed Alabama somewhat. Since when had Copper become so bloodthirsty? Back in the day, he had always been the quiet one, helping from the sidelines and never becoming directly involved in the fighting. He'd changed since the Freelancer had last spoken to him. But then maybe the role of leader had taken its toll on him.

"And watch out for the girl with your main target," the gang leader continued, finally sipping from his drink. "She took out one of the best assassins in the city with his own fucking knife. She might look like a pushover, but she's hiding something. Silencer cost us a lot of money."

Alabama nodded, carefully keeping his expression blank. Copper hired an assassin? Something was wrong here. However, he'd made a promise to his childhood friend, a promise he intended to keep. He could ask questions later.

The Freelancer stood up and smiled.

"I'll go find Mississippi and then change into my armour. We'll get your target."

* * *

The music pounded around Massachusetts as she danced with El, watching with amusement as Sigma flitted through the strobe lighting. The A.I. was barely noticed by the other people, and when they did spot her, only caught a glimpse before she melted away into the beams of coloured light. The alcohol playing tricks on their eyes, obviously.

The night had been a good one so far, although the drinks were beginning to go to her head. Everything felt warped. The dancing was not helping.

"I'm gonna sit at the bar," she shouted to El over the noise. El nodded and grinned, turning her attention to a young man next to her.

Massachusetts staggered over to the bar and sat down heavily on a stool, her world spinning slightly as she swayed in her seat.

"You're flushed. Looks like you need a drink."

The Freelancer turned blearily to her right, to see a man sat next to her, smiling. Squinting at him for a moment, two thoughts crossed her mind. The first was the realisation that he was insanely good looking. He had rich brown hair, pale skin, and slightly a gaunt face, which only enhanced his strong jaw line. His nose straight, not too big, and he had wide, thin lips. Dark brown eyes stared longingly at her.

Her second thought was '_I would.'_

"Hi," Massachusetts replied brightly, intrigued by the handsome stranger. "I'm Emma. What's your name?"

"Derrick," Derrick replied silkily, leaning towards her slightly. She could smell his cologne, musky, but with a mischievously spicy undertone to it. The scent made her feel intoxicated, and she twisted her hair between her fingers playfully.

"So you were offering me a drink?" she asked.

"Maybe," he replied, clearly eager to follow her game. "But what could you give in return?"

"Oh, plenty. Don't you worry about _that_."

"Emma?"

Both Derrick and Massachusetts turned to see El watching them with suspicion.

"I've seen you before," El said sharply, her eyes narrowing as she stared at Derrick.

"Somehow, I doubt it," he replied tartly, and slid off his stool, stalking away.

"El!" Massachusetts exploded. "That was just getting good! I nearly had myself a free drink!"

"I didn't like the look of him, Em," El said darkly, slipping her hand inside her jacket to check her gun was still there.

"But the free drink!"

"Oh, shut up. I'll get you one."

"Good, but don't expect anything in return. I reserve bedroom adventures as payment for sex gods only."

* * *

Alabama and Mississippi watched the club front carefully. At the present moment, they had two choices: storm the club and use the cover and confusion of civilians to pick Massachusetts off before escaping into the night, or wait until she left the club and take her out then. Both options had disadvantages. Crashing the party would result in a higher risk of innocents dying through the crossfire. They'd also have to take out the bouncers first, unless clubs had suddenly taken to letting heavily armed men wearing cybernetic armour in for shits and giggles. The other plan was more hazardous for them. Massachusetts had a high battle rating, so drunk or not, she would be extremely dangerous. Not to mention her companion, who Copper had explicitly warned them about.

"Weighing it up," Alabama said while Mississippi checked their gun, "I'd rather take the first option. I value my life more than a few people who get in the way."

He knew it was simply his upbringing speaking, but at the end of the day, it was kill or be killed. Mississippi nodded, as Zeta was still refusing to show herself, agreeing. Civilians had never bothered Mississippi anyway. Zeta was all the Freelancer had ever wanted or needed.

Alabama stood up, Mississippi following him as they walked briskly to the club entrance. The two bouncers put their hands to their pistols as they approached.

"No weapons allowed," the taller bouncer said. The Freelancers stopped, not moving.

"No weapons!" the other bouncer shouted suddenly. "Are you deaf?"

Mississippi raised their pistol and shot the bouncer straight through the head. The taller bouncer cried out in shock and tried to draw his own weapon, but the Freelancer was too quick for him. He fell to the floor, writhing in agony, a bullet in each of his kneecaps.

"She's mute, actually," Alabama said cheerily as he kicked their guns away and out of reach, before stepping over them and walking into the club.

Both El and Massachusetts heard the gunshots outside. The Freelancer sighed. She'd only just gotten her drink. El quickly vaulted over the bar and beckoned for Massachusetts to do the same.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," Massachusetts grumbled, climbing over and ducking down behind the bar. Then she paused, before standing up slightly.

"What are you doing?" El hissed. "Get down."

Massachusetts crouched down again with a glass in her hand. She had just taken it from the bar tops.

"I want," she growled, "my _fucking_ _free drink_."

The Freelancer knocked it back in one go, and then wiped her mouth.

"Watch and learn, short stuff."

Massachusetts stood up and hurled the empty glass across the room. It soared with a slight spin, twirling beautifully, the coloured lights reflecting off its smooth exterior. Then it smashed straight into Mississippi's visor.

"Now!" Massachusetts yelled, drawing her pistol and opening fire. El fumbled for her own weapon and then stood up, shooting blindly and missing.

Alabama quickly grabbed Mississippi, dragging his ally to cover. The visor where the glass had hit was completely shattered, meaning vision would be impaired. Mississippi desperately tried to clear the broken glass, but instead only succeeded in knocking it into the helmet.

_Zeta, forget the argument_, the Freelancer thought desperately,_ I can't see!_

"Fuck, this is bad," Alabama muttered. He eyed up the Goth girl who was panicking and firing at air while the club patrons ran about screaming in terror. Copper must have gotten it wrong. The girl blatantly didn't know the first thing about fighting. Her shots were either ending up hitting nothing or taking down the fleeing civilians. She was out in the open, too, concentrating more on firing than moving herself out of harm's way.

Easy target.

Rolling out of cover, he aimed and pulled the trigger on his own gun. The girl moved at the last second so that the bullet intended for her head instead hit her in the shoulder, sending her flying backwards. Alabama cursed and ducked back down, before noticing that his ally had moved out of sight. He glanced around to find Mississippi crawling behind the booths.

"Missi, what are you doing?" he bellowed. Mississippi waved a hand and shuffled along the floor, squinting as they struggled to peer through the cracked glass of their visor. The ridges left thick black lines in the Freelancers vision, the area just around the cracks so blurred it made Mississippi feel disorientated. However, if the bar could just be reached without being detected, Massachusetts and the girl could be taken down from two fronts.

If the bar could just be reached...

El yelled in surprise as the sheer force of the bullet knocked her over. She slammed into the shelves and slid down as bottles of alcohol rained down around her, exploding like fireworks as they made contact with the ground. Glass slivers sliced her skin, the spirit within burning as it caressed her cuts. El moaned as agony flooded her body, leaving her gasping on the ground.

"El!" Massachusetts dove over to her friend and knelt down, quickly pulling off El's jacket to reach the wound. Blood ran freely, staining her arm and shoulder red. Massachusetts put pressure against the hole to try and stop the bleeding, when El suddenly pushed her away.

"I'm fine," El said, ignoring the scarlet spurting from her shoulder. She felt perfectly calm again, like she had the night she'd killed Silencer. A shoulder injury was nothing.

El stood up again, suddenly focused on what she had to do. The roar of gunfire disappeared, becoming dull thunder to her ears – background noise. The pain in her body numbed to nothing. She had the gun in the hand. It was all she needed.

The one who shot her, the green soldier, was hidden in cover. She could pick him off later. However, Emma had put the other enemy at huge disadvantage by destroying the visor. Although they'd be able to see, it would be difficult.

Mississippi made a sprint towards the bar, not noticing that El was on her feet again.

El saw her target.

Raising her pistol, she fired three times.

Had Zeta been guarding her host like was supposed to, the shots could have been avoided easily. The A.I. would have served as a guide where Mississippi's vision had failed. But Zeta, still angry with the way she had been treated, was not guarding her host.

The first bullet hit Mississippi in the leg, knocking the Freelancer to their knees. Before the Freelancer could cry out, the second made contact with the pelvis. The third stuck the chest. Mississippi, in typical fashion, collapsed silently to the floor.

"Holy shit!" Massachusetts exclaimed. "El, that was brilliant! I knew you had it in you!"

El crouched down and looked at her gun, the pain in her shoulder beginning to return in waves.

"We need to go!" she shouted back, sirens sounding in the distance. "Come on!"

"Try telling that to the nice man with the motherfucking _gun!_"

The bar shook as bullets ricocheted off its metal exterior and El saw Massachusetts' point. If they wanted to go anywhere, their opponent would have to be taken care of first.

"Missi!" Alabama yelled frantically. He tried to move to reach his ally, but was driven back by gunfire from his targets. Judging from the way Mississippi had fallen down, the injuries must have been grave. Alabama quickly poked his head around the booth and caught a glimpse of Mississippi before a bullet whizzed past his head. He needed to get to his comrade somehow, but with the room being so well lit, there was no way he could make it past them without being shot at. Copper had been right, though. The girl was extremely dangerous; he hadn't seen Freelancers with such precise pistol work before, never mind an underweight bitch. If Mississippi could have seen properly...

That was it! Obscure their vision!

Reaching for a smoke grenade off his belt, he pulled the pin and hurled it towards the bar. Grey gas erupted from it, engulfing all in its choking mass. Massachusetts and El began to hack and cough immediately, while Alabama, whose suit filtered out the smoke, took his chance, making his way over to Mississippi.

"Al, over here!" Zeta shouted through the smoggy cover. He could see a strong glow not far from him, and followed it, occasionally tripping over stools and scattered chairs. Finally he reached the fallen Freelancer.

"Hang on, Missi. I'll get you out of here." Alabama took his companion under the arms and began to pull them away. "Zeta, go back to your chip. You're just a beacon for Agent Massachusetts."

Zeta nodded, her face laced with concern, and then disappeared. Mississippi was too heavy for a standard fireman's lift due to the armour, so the best Alabama could do was drag.

"Copper," he said through his headset as the exit came into sight, "send back the jeep that dropped us off. We've hit a snag."

* * *

"Get on!" One of Copper's men leaned out of the jeep window as it screeched to a halt outside the club. It was an armoured van and looked sturdy enough.

Alabama hauled Mississippi's body onto the vehicle, hoping it would hold both of their weight. It sank slightly as Mississippi was loaded on, and then even further as Alabama clambered on as well. Once the doors were shut and the jeep began to move, Zeta appeared immediately.

"Oh, this is all my fault!" Her voice was hysterical, her face scrunched up in distress. "Help him, Al. Help him, please!"

"I'm not qualified, Zay. We'll have to wait until..." Alabama's voice trailed off, and he stared at the A.I. "Did you just say...him?"

"Does it matter?" she shrieked. "Do something!"

"I can't!" Alabama yelled back furiously. "If I touch her, I could just make it worse! I could accidently kill her! Is that what you want?"

Zeta flitted over her host, leaning against the shattered visor.

"I'm so sorry, Missi," she whispered, looking at the Freelancer directly. "I'm so sorry. Hold on. I can't...I can't lose you..."

"We'll be there soon," Alabama said reassuringly, regretting shouting at the distressed A.I.

"Al," Zeta said quietly, not looking at him.

"Yes, Zeta?"

"Take his helmet off. You deserve to know."

There was that 'his' again. Alabama was flummoxed, but he did as he was told. Leaning forward, he gently removed the helmet, making sure not to disturb the injured Freelancer too much. He looked at the face of Mississippi for the first time, and dropped the helmet in shock with a loud clunk.

Mississippi was a man.


End file.
